The crowded subway pulled into Union Square station to absorb even more grumpy and impatient zombies.

On public transportation, people tend to cluster.

Last weekend, Deborah and I went to Cuddlebackville to watch some friends race at the Oakland Valley Race Park.

Tale of the Tripawed Charmer

My uncle Tom, a talented and enthusiastic artist with no shortage of fantastical ideas, passed away last year, but it wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago that I had an opportunity to dig through some of his old art supplies. Digging through the chilly corner of my parents’ garage where my uncle's things were stored, I filled a small grocery bag with whatever looked promising.

If I didn’t have an astronomical phone bill hanging over my head from last month, I might have called Brian back. Instead, I waited.

Rory came into my life through the side door. He was part of a package deal when I met my wife, Deborah. At the time, I was living the free and easy life of a pet-less bachelor, and I didn't think much about cats. It's not that I didn't like them — I'd had cats before — but, at that point in my life, l just couldn't be bothered.

My friend Brian is a nomad — a citizen of the world. When he isn’t breathlessly bopping around the globe, you will likely find him sequestered in a Buddhist monastery in Myanmar, nestled in one of the quiet villages of northern Thailand, or relaxing in the house in Ireland he shares with his siblings.

At least seven years had passed since I saw Ali. Maybe more, maybe less, we couldn’t agree. She picked out a place in her neighborhood, and I hopped on my motorcycle to meet her. I hadn’t ridden my bike in a while because (1) I have a pinched nerve in my neck that is extra painful when I’m sitting in a riding position, and (2) it’s been hot as balls outside. My ancient air-cooled machine sputters and stalls if I sit in traffic too long. And, in this town, traffic is impossible to avoid.

The rain was sporadic, but when it came, it didn’t fuck around. It was sunny when I left the apartment, so I hadn’t brought an umbrella, but I’m not even sure an umbrella would have been any use against such a sideways storm. It came in splashes as if a fire brigade were tossing pails of water onto a burning building. I did my best to find shelter during the worst of it, and I found myself in the Chelsea Market on West 15th Street. I perused a bookstore there and bought a book.

Over the weekend, my friend Wade played the part of the big-money race car owner by loaning one of his bikes out for a little vintage flat track fun. That is to say, Wade doesn't race himself, but he owns a few bikes and, rather than let them sit in his crowded garage of lost toys, he decided to let one out of its cage to live the life it was meant to live. The bike in question is a 1959 BSA Gold Star. Wade bought it a little over a year ago from Hugh, a local mechanic and flat track racer who, himself, had purchased it (in pieces) from the estate of its original owner. Hugh put the bike back together, raced it for a season or two, then sold it to Wade, who then added it to his ever-growing aforementioned collection. Wade is quite proud of the bike and even went so far as to create a scrapbook filled with photos from its storied history.

About three months ago, there was a shakeup at the company I’d been working for. It had been a good situation that kept me gainfully employed for roughly three years, but when two of the department heads quit simultaneously, the company was forced to rethink its strategy, and they stopped hiring freelancers. At least freelancers with my particular and peculiar qualifications. It didn’t dawn on me until recently, but three years is the longest I’ve ever spent schlepping to the same workplace every day. I was in such a routine that when I was told I’d be out of a job soon, it caught me by surprise. The company had provided more work than I ever expected in the first place, and I was given over a month’s heads up before I was gone for good, so there wasn’t much to complain about. ”Thanks for all the work, good luck, stay in touch.”

Aside from my wife, with whom I've lived for over half the time I've been writing this blog, no one has appeared in more posts than my dear old friend Brian -- currently chasing the dragon of enlightenment in a far-flung Burmese Buddhist Monastery. I've been so busy that I can barely keep track of my schedule, so how far along is Brian into his scheduled 60-day retreat? Who knows?

I purchased a new computer late last year and spent a considerable amount of time migrating files from one place to another, weeding out the things I could put into deep storage in an attempt to make room for things that will probably wind up there next year. One of the things I found is a video of my friend J.

In 2002, the terms Blog, Blogging, and Blogger were more often than not pejorative. Traditional outlets like The New York Times didn't have much respect for bloggers, and I can remember reading more than one op-ed predicting that blogs were a sign of the apocalypse. I suppose that if you happened to be a traditional reporter for a traditional newspaper during that time, they were probably right, but in any case, it's not without some irony that I reference an article published in the New York Times' OP-TALK section, which, let's face it, is a collection of blogs.

Depending on the weather, it can be challenging for my two-wheel drive pickup to pull out of my father-in-law's steep driveway. Even when the weather's fine, it can be a challenge. Because of the bushes that line the entrance and block the view, you can't get a good running start without risking a fiery collision with one of the cars or trucks that whiz down the narrow country road doing twice the legal limit. But chugging slowly up the 40-degree grade guarantees the truck's wheels will do nothing but spin and kick up rocks. If there is any snow or ice, I park on the grassy shoulder just past the house, instead. The shoulder presents its own problems, however, especially when the ground is soft and wet, the way it was on Christmas day. More than once, I've nearly slid over the shoulder's edge into the gully.

Walking to the bus stop on my way home from work last night, I came upon an ambulance and two police cars idling at an intersection. Flashing lights lit up their exhaust, making a pulsing red cloud at the curb. Cars had to drive around the ambulance, and a small traffic jam stretched from the sirens to the bus stop. I didn't linger, but I did slow down a little as I passed the scene. I didn’t see anything. If something had happened, I missed it.

"Super-storm Sandy" got a lot of well-deserved hype, but honestly, if I didn't have any source of news, I wouldn't have had a clue what was going on outside at the time. Even the occasional flicker of our lights wasn't all that unusual. I expected ferocious winds to hammer at our seventh-floor windows all night, but somehow our apartment faces in such a way that they were sheltered from the whole shebang. If I didn't know better, I would've thought, "Hmm‚ it’s a little rainy tonight. I guess I'll stay in." (As if I don't stay in most nights anyway, but that's another story.)