Not your usual sight

I sit in the home office, in a cozy hooded sweatshirt and comfy slippers. Late fall is trying to hang onto a few more crisp days before yielding to the biting cold of winter. But the old man is eager to arrive, hoping to make an appearance before November, pushing a cold front across New Jersey. Some of the Garden State's upper reaches, its northernmost counties and hilly hamlets, have already seen snow in the past day or two. But now it's here, in flurry form, in the denser suburbs. The light, drifting flakes blow diagonally outside the window and aren't here for long -- just long enough for me to notice them, and to wonder if I've ever seen this kind of weather in October in New Jersey.

Several years ago, I spent about 24 hours with a friend's (now long-ex-) boyfriend up in the Berkshires, visiting a high school buddy of mine. It was Columbus Day weekend, mid-October, the peak of the fall season in Greenfield and Shelburne Falls and the surrounding towns. We took pictures, ate apples, shot arrows (some of them at apples, none of which were perched on our heads) and made the most of a day in the country. That night, Dave and I climbed, fully clothed, into our sleeping bags in a not-so-well-heated room of the house Walker was renting or caretaking and shivered ourselves to sleep. Winter seemed to move in overnight, a frost encrusting the lawn of the meadow I hiked across at dawn in a fruitless attempt to photograph the sunrise.

When we left later that morning, we headed west along the Mohawk Trail -- otherwise known as Massachusetts Route 2 -- because of its dotted scenic route designation on the map. We had no reason to rush home, so we took the long way. Crossing the crown of the Berkshires, we looked down snow-dusted slopes to the valleys below. I had never seen trees holding a coating of snow while still maintaining a grasp onto their red and golden leaves. Autumn and winter came together in a mash-up of the seasons. The air grew warmer as the morning went on and we descended the western side of the mountains and crossed the river into Albany. Like a shooting star, the melding of the seasons didn't last long, but it left an impression.

Nancy Kerrigan stopped by

It's 1:40 a.m. on a Saturday and I just walked past Nancy Kerrigan in the office. She was with a group of people discussing something work-related (all I bothered to hear was "should we set up a conference call?") before they all stepped onto the elevator and scattered.

We presume she was here using our studios for some Ice Network purpose, though it's the first time I've heard of such an arrangement. Not that I would be privy to such agreements, but I already did know about our relationship with CBS Sports (particularly during the NCAA basketball tournament).

Anyway, it was a fun celebrity sighting, and a close one. On my way to the kitchen (via a different route than usual, no purpose, of course), I had to walk right next to her. At 39, she's very pretty (for any age, really) and is about my height -- without skates.

Me time

I finally got back to the photo blog tonight. And, as I mentioned, I'm using my Wednesday to take a day for myself and hit the road (gotta love gas prices now down to $2.70 a gallon or less) for a New Jersey foliage day trip sojourn. It'll be good to get away to the hills for some Dan time, away from the hectic city and a nice break after the League Championship Series and before the final stretch of the World Series. It was nice to get Game 1 off following a Sunday at home, just to have a couple of nights where I don't have to deal with the craziness.

Signs I need a new point-and-shoot digital

When I bought my laptop years ago, I added a Kodak digital point-and-shoot for about a hundred bucks. It was worth it at the time, when I didn't have my digital SLR, and it worked out just fine. Picture quality was good and it takes video, too.

But now it's an albatross. It is, like most technology more than a year old (if that), a bit outdated. It's heavy for a point-and-shoot. The tab that kept the battery door closed broke off years ago, so I've been holding that together with a rubber band. If it's not tight enough, the door doesn't fully close on the battery, which then doesn't reach both contact points and, therefore, doesn't provide its power to the camera. And now it seems that the two batteries no longer hold a sufficient charge.

I haven't used the camera in a few weeks, but I've been carrying it around in my bag each night on my way to work. Today, as I headed up 6th Ave. to then head west on 15th St., I looked up at the Empire State Building in the dusk. Its floodlights were orange, a perfect contrast against the darkening blue sky. They were Mets colors creating a visual complement to the autumn chill in the air. I watched the tourists' cameras flash from the observation deck as I pulled out my camera; their strobe effect was a nice touch and I planned to take a short video of it to see if it would translate. But two dead batteries scuttled that plan.

With everything else we've spent money on this year, I'm not in any position to be spending money on such luxury items. I'll have to use this financial quiet time to shop around and find the point-and-shoot that has the features I want in a conveniently portable camera: Lightweight, good-quality photos, compact, video capabilities and the ability to take good photos without a flash in low light for concert settings.

Then I'll have to get back to 6th and 15th at about 6:30 p.m. in late October when the Empire State Building is orange.

Should be no problem.

Next time, I should keep my finger to myself

Friday night brings them all out in New York City: The nutjobs, the wackos, the assholes. The ditzes, the flakes, the clueless. The pretty people, the arrogant, the self-righteous. I should know this by now. Or rather, I do know this, but I should bear it in mind more often when I find myself on the Manhattan streets after work at 2 a.m.

Here's the deal: The car is there when I walk downstairs after work, a nice easy night with a clear 2 a.m. finish because there was no baseball game tonight. I get in the car at the curb as a stream of taxis passes us even as the driver lets up on the brake and begins to move. The cabs are continuing south on 9th Ave., into the Meatpacking District. The avenue is packed in these wee hours of the morning as people hop from one trendy club to another or search for that dive bar on 14th St. for a nightcap or head home, drunk and boisterous in the back seat of a cab. After the light turns green, we're slow to turn right onto 15th St. because the cabs continuing on 9th cannot move through the intersection. The right lane we are in, which is marked as a combination straight and right-turn lane, contains cars side-by-side. My driver has his right-turn signal on -- as does the SUV to our left.

Horns begin blaring and a police cruiser toots his bullhorn. He leaves his dome lights off, however. With the inside track, my driver is able to make the right turn onto 15th St. just ahead of the pushy SUV, which did its best to position itself in front of us before the turn. I look out the window throughout the turn, trying to both get a glimpse and imagine who would have the gall to pull such a stunt, no matter how big or tough or overcompensating he is behind the wheel of his gas-guzzler. Not to mention the fact that he had to have heard the cop's horn moments before making the turn.

As we begin to make our way down 15th, I can sense the SUV's headlights close behind me. Turning around, I find I'm correct -- he's inches from our bumper, blatantly tailgating and swerving first to the left, then to the right, to get around us. It's not a two-lane road, and if parking were allowed on the right side, there's no way he would've had room. But the right-hand gutter is clear, so he floors it and passes us.

Now here's where I get stupid. Yet it must be stressed that I was in the right, clearly, while the SUV driver had three strikes against him: 1.) the illegal turn off of 9th Ave; 2.) tailgating; and 3.) passing on the right on a sidestreet.

Still, I probably shouldn't have given him the finger.

Or I shouldn't have done it so blatantly, my thumb securely holding down the other three fingers, my long middle digit pressed up against the top of the window -- where it was closer to his eye level and right up there in the lights shining down from the streetlamps. As soon as he surged in front of us -- swerving into our path before he smashed into a delivery truck parked at the curb -- and perhaps even before that moment, I knew I should've thought before extending my finger. At the very least, I should've disguised it by drumming my other fingers on the window as if listening to music or flat-out holding it up against the door beneath the window. It wouldn't have been seen there, but I still would've known and felt a moment of righteousness.

But he saw it. And he slammed on his brakes, coming to a stop in the middle of 15th St., halfway between 9th and 10th avenues. I looked behind us: No one. The driver got out and started yelling, approaching the driver's door of the car I was in. I held my hands up as if to say, "What, dude?" And yet I do not know why he approached the driver, when he clearly saw me in the back seat flipping him off. My driver, unaware of my instigation, started yelling and flipped open his cell phone to call the police. The aggressor yanked at the driver's door twice and (thankfully) found it locked.

In the back of my mind, I cursed the cops in the car on 9th Ave. who chose not to follow the SUV that had made an illegal turn two cars in front of him. Luckily, the SUV aggressor's passenger had a cooler head. "Come on, man. Let's get out of here." That's literally what he said, like we were in the opening scene of a Law & Order, when you see the aftermath of the crime that the detectives will spend the next hour (minus commercials) investigating.

My heart raced, my mind flashed through all the possible scenarios of what could have happened -- at least when it wasn't berating my hand for getting us into this predicament. The SUV sped ahead to the light at 10th Avenue. I was hoping it would be green so that he could continue on ahead of us, but it was red. We pulled up behind him. My driver continued to wonder what the hell was wrong with the SUV driver, and I explained that he probably thought I was giving him the finger, but of course I wasn't, because that would've been stupid. (He didn't need to know.)

On the ride home after a long night, when I just want to get home, the red lights always seem endless. Tonight, on my earliest exit from the office in 10 days, the wait at 15th St. and 10th Ave. was unbearable. And yet, it lasted mere seconds, because the SUV then made a left onto 10th, going against the traffic (not that there were any cars at the moment he made his turn, but he still was going the wrong way on a one-way street) for 20 feet so that he could turn into the gas station on the corner. Yet once there, he executed a K-turn, once again bringing my heart rate up as I wondered if he was trying to maneuver around the cars at the pumps so that he could exit back onto 15th St. -- where he would then be behind us again.

Thankfully, the driver got out. I don't know if he continued to shout at us or even look at us because there was a car parked in between us and all I could see was that his door had opened. Our light turned green and we headed up 10th toward the Lincoln Tunnel. Yet as we were slowed by traffic outside the 10th Avenue clubs and the lights as they turned from red to green, I continued to look back over my shoulder every block, just to make sure the silver SUV wasn't back on the road, weaving its way through traffic looking for us.

I pulled out my notebook and wrote down the license plate number and added, "Approached car on 15th St." so that the police would have a clear lead should they find us run off the road, unconscious. As we sat at a light before entering the Lincoln Tunnel access road, my driver told me he has a hammer on the front seat. "I'm glad we didn't need to use it," I reply.

Once safely inside the tunnel, where I could confirm that the car immediately in front of us and immediately behind us wasn't the SUV -- even though it hadn't left the gas station before we were several blocks away -- and the right lane was closed at that hour, my heart rate finally started to level off. Once we passed the tiled New Jersey-New York border at the (presumed) midpoint, I at last felt a sense of relief.

The rest of the way home, I was glad that it didn't get past a tug on the door handle and a few curses shouted at us from the street. But I also wished I wasn't stupid, while at the same time wished I was bigger and/or tougher or, for that one moment, the slightest bit an asshole, so that I could've defended myself should it have come to that. Because in the end, my one small act of antagonism was nothing compared to the trifecta of aggression that had prompted my response. I mean seriously -- where does the guy who passes on the right on a side street in New York City get off getting pissed off because I flip him off in response to his stunt?

Ironically, all this happened while I was in Car 495, which seems to be a number associated with drama whenever he takes me home. True to form, not only was the right lane of the Lincoln Tunnel closed, but so was the helix on the other side, sending all the traffic on to the Weehawken streets to make its way around and back up onto Route 495 and toward the Turnpike and Route 3. At least the traffic was light in the 2-2:30 half-hour. An hour later -- as I finish this post, in fact -- the volume is probably doubled, the backup through the tunnel and out onto the various approaches in the city. By 3 a.m. on a Friday or Saturday night, the Bridge-and-Tunnel crowd seems to have had enough and has begun to make its way back across or beneath the Hudson. If the helix is closed, forget about it. You could be stuck in a 45-minute backup just to travel the three miles beneath the river. Your 20-minute ride home stretches to more than an hour.

Thankfully, that wasn't the case, and I walked into the kitchen well before 3 o'clock. With Casey spending the night at a friend's in the city, I didn't feel the need to head right to bed. And having worked until 4:30 or 5 a.m. every night since Tuesday, I'm not quite as tired at 3 a.m. as I otherwise would be. Therefore, it was the perfect time to enjoy a beer and rehash the ride home, if only as a reminder to think before I flip next time.

Seasonal signs

October decoration

On my run today and later on my walk to the train, I noticed more houses with Halloween decorations than political signs. A lot more. Like a dozen Halloween-themed lawns and three political placards.

I don't think everyone should announce their allegiances, nor should they have to, but I seem to remember every fourth fall would have the red, white and blue lawn accents of campaign signs to go along with the oranges, yellows and browns of the changing leaves.

I'm all for Halloween and spooking out the yard, and if I was sure I'd be home for the trick-or-treaters, we'd probably have some orange lights on the porch and tombstones in the yard. (I hesitate because I don't think it's right for me to decorate for the season and then leave the place dark on the big night. Not that the half-dozen kids we'd probably get would really notice.) But I do hope that the choice of exterior decorations in my neighborhood does not indicate that household's choice in putting one day ahead of the other.

Hopefully, those with the haunted homes will get out of the house on Nov. 4 -- and those with the political point of view pick up some candy before the 31st.

2 a.m. traffic

Getting Car 495 seems to mean one thing: A delay. It's a new one tonight -- Route 3 closed at the bridge near the Meadowlands. There's allegedly one lane open, but traffic was stopped for 10 minutes while construction workers moved some equipment or set a steel beam in place for the frame of the bridge over the roadway. It's part of the expansion of the complex, the building of Xanadu and new Giants/Jets football stadium, that includes a NJ Transit rail station. This bridge will, I presume, carry the trains over the highway.

Tonight, though, it's adding about 15 minutes to my middle-of-the-night drive home.

Unprofessional and irresponsible

When you work for an internet news site, deadline is more "now" than by a certain time. And when the last relevant event happens at 10 p.m., there's no reason your assignment should arrive 4 1/2 hours later.

I'm just saying. And venting.

Tomorrow, I attend my last game at Shea Stadium, though I hope it's not the last game at Shea Stadium. Today, that is. In 10 hours, I'll be there, standing and cheering. Hopefully, much rejoicing will follow.

And then I'll return to this office, this desk, and work another shift.

October lies just around the corner...

Fight! Fight!

After getting home at 5 a.m. Monday, I wasn't about to set an alarm for any particular time. The plan was to catch up on my sleep and wake up when my body said it was time. Or at least my stomach.

But with the windows open, I was exposed to the audible elements of the neighborhood. When I heard the daily cacophony of high school students walking down the street, I first thought I'd slept until 2:30, which is when they usually pass by on their way home and to the city buses. But the clock showed 12:15, so I deduced that it must have been a half-day.

As I lay there trying to drift back to sleep, it occurred to me that the shouting outside wasn't the usual back-and-forth across the street. And the honking seemed to be a little more frequent then normal. When the yells reached a certain level, I flashed back to the seventh-grade playground and realized what I was hearing.

There was a fight going on. Right outside my house.

On the street.

I ran into the guest room and looked out over the patio and through the trees. In the street by our driveway a circle had formed. In the middle were two boys circling one another, fists up, taking the occasional jab at one another. The leaves on the trees obscured the full scene, so I don't know exactly which two were fighting or if it had gotten very far, but with a soundtrack and a little lyrical dialogue and it could've been Clifton's west side story -- and yes, we live on the western end of town.

Shortly after I got to the window, though, the cars lined up in the street -- there was no room to get around the crowd that had gathered -- won after repeated honking, and the circle broke up, the would-be combatants decamping to opposite sides of the street. I didn't even have enough time to really comprehend that I still don't know, or have programmed into my phone, the number for the Clifton police. Yeah, I'd decided I was going to age 40 years and be the 70-year-old man who essentially tells the kids to get out of his yard. Had a scuffle broken out -- or even a melee -- it could've spilled over into the driveway and onto the car, and that would've been a bigger problem.

There was no way I was opening the window and yelling at the young whippersnappers, though. I'm not drawing any more attention to the house than I have to with the kids passing by daily.

And now we're in September

Man, it's been ages. I suck.

Let's see ... of late:

1.) We spent a weekend in Pittsburgh in mid-August that included a Mets-Pirates game, Primanti Bros. sandwiches, the Johnstown Flood National Memorial and a stretch of abandoned Pennsylvania Turnpike.

2.) We cleared out more of the front "yard" and it looks much better now.

3.) We had Harry's -- the big cat's -- teeth cleaned, and he got back at us by eating coffee cake and bagels.

4.) The weather the last two weeks of August felt more like September, and now these first few days of September have felt like August should have. I nearly needed to turn on the air conditioning today.

5.) I turned 32. It was a low-key birthday, on account of the insulation estimating guy asking to set up the consultation for Tuesday morning. So he came by and checked out the house, then my parents arrived and I introduced Mom to White Manna (Hackensack, of course) before we took a look at Paterson's Great Falls. Then she got all excited when we drove down Spruce St. and realized that the Burger King used to be a hot dog shack she and her family used to visit. She shrieked.

6.) Now we've got Matt and Ellie coming in for the weekend to celebrate Notre Dame's opener tomorrow and then drink for my birthday with other people as they show up. Should be good, drunken times.

Twenty years down the road

My mom came across a newspaper article from 20 years ago that featured some of my classmates and me and an architecture project we did. So freakin' amusing to look back on it now. (That's me, with the bad hair day, behind the model of our school.)

---

Wed., June 22, 1988

MODEL STUDENTS

Kids build on new ideas

When is a school not a school?

When it’s a scaled down likeness of same made out of foamboard, cut with a Dremel saw, put together with Elmer’s Glue and painted.

Just such a version of Markham Place School, Little Silver,was created by three sixth graders there – Aimee B., Danny C. and Becky R. – and received an Excellence Award in the Children’s Architecture Exhibit staged in Round Valley Elementary School, Lebanon Township.

Excellence Awards are the highest awards for the total exhibition.

The annual event is sponsored by the Children’s Architecture Association established in 1982 by Constance Fraze Ph.D., Oldwick, Tewskbury Township,a cognitive theorist who ran a graduate center of research on how children learn at Rutgers University.

Ms. Fraze believes children aged 6 to 12 need to be doing alot of three-dimensional work to further their learning and understanding. Currently, she conducts spring and fall teachers’ workshops on that subject in Oldwick.

“My notion in a nutshell,” she explained, “is that we literally construct our intelligence during the concrete period of operations in childhood; I’m using architecture to help children understand the use of space.”

The annual exhibition – “not a contest really,” Ms. Fraze pointed out – started with castles and went on from there. This year, 78 students from eight school districts participated. Twenty-three projects were displayed.

Categories included castles, bridges, historic buildings,modern and future structures. Students from the Little Silver Schools’ gifted and talented program had entries in all.

A scaled-down version of the Twin Lights Museum, Highlands, also received an Excellence Award. It was created by sixth graders William B., Matt R. and David N.

Rachel W., a fourth grader, received second place in the total exhibit for her fancy robot Mitchell George, who was a star of the show and entertained students by marching around the gym.

This is the fourth year students from Little Silver have shown in the exhibit, according to Joanne B., teacher in the school system’s gifted and talented program. Twenty-six students participated and learned to use such tools as T-squares, metal rulers, tape measures, levelers and Dremel sand and scroll saws to build their projects.

An Underwater Sea Castle,that included a McFish Restaurant, took first place in the fifth grade category designated the Castle Competition. Creators of the Sea Castle were fifth graders Mike V. and Mark S. and fourth graders Noelle H., Richard D., Richard B., Sam S., Taylor W. and Jennifer R.

Stephen K. won the first place award in the sixth grade category, modern division, for his version of New York’s World Trade Center, while fifth graders Bjorn S. and Matt R. took second place for their version of the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco.

Fifth graders Jennifer B., Emily K., Sam S., Jennifer J. and Gretchen S. shared a first place historic award. They built a model of the White House, Washington, D.C., and discovered just how many additions were added to the original building.

Sixth graders John H. and Amiee M. shared a second place award for the Empire State Building, New York, and fifth grader Audrey W. took first place in the castle contest for her purple pagoda.

According to Mrs. B., the architecture project provides students a chance to research and execute. She said many after-school hours were sacrificed to put on the finishing touches.

“The students,” she said, “have a great deal of pride intheir finished products and the exhibit furnished them an audience whoappreciate their endeavors.”

A Giant show

Three hours, 20 minutes, 30 songs, 55,000 people. I don't think I've seen a better show in my nine-year, 16-concert Springsteen-chasing lifetime.

From the moment he came onstage, his arm draped around Clarence (who appeared to be wearing an adorned admiral's coat), there seemed to be something different about this show. That hunch proved to be true, in all the best ways. Bruce came out in a black shirt and dark blue jeans, at once a change from his usual black-on-black or gray-on-black attire and a throwback to the Born In the USA days of blue jeans and white T-shirts. And then when the band burst into "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out" for the opening, it sure seemed like this wasn't going to be like any other shows I've seen.

The band tore through four songs -- "Tenth Avenue," "Radio Nowhere," "Lonesome Day" and "No Surrender" -- before any hint of a pause. Bruce was animated and engaging, often taking his microphone or guitar down to the low stage that jutted out into the audience. Those lucky -- and hardy -- enough to get there early enough and fast enough shook his hand, felt his sweat and strummed his guitar. Opportunistic as he is, he made sure he was down there -- literally, lying on the stage -- for the line "and she kissed me just right like only a lonely angel can," getting a timely peck on the cheek from a fan who probably fainted before he hit the refrain again a moment later.

The huge stage setup covering the band dwarfed everyone and the high-definition screens on either side of the improvised bandshell essentially gave us all front-row seats. Stationary cameras set onstage often gave us Max's view -- a shot of Springsteen from behind, the sea of arms fading off into the darkness in front of him. If they release a DVD of this show or this three-night stand, I won't hesitate to buy it, because I essentially saw a preview already. Whoever produced the concert, choosing the camera angles and the jumps for the live shots on the video screen, has some experience. It felt at times like watching an edited production.

Following "Spirit in the Night," Bruce walked the lower stage collecting signs from the crowd. "Send up your requests!" he said. "That's a good one. ... Ooh, that's a good one. ... We'll get to this one. ..." he remarked as he stuffed the signs under one arm or gathered them in his free hand. He piled them on the stage near his hydration station at Max's platform and went back to the microphone.

"How's everybody's summer going?!" he asked the crowd. Our response was a bit muted, even on the second and third prompts. It worked out for him. "I dunno ... sounds like you've got a little of the ..." his voice trailed off and the band went into "Summertime Blues."

That cover was followed by "Brilliant Disguise" and "Atlantic City," and then it was time for a couple of requests.

The first one he chose to honor said something to the effect of, "I'm a 10-year-old fan 'Growin' Up' at my first show -- and my name's Rosie!" Bruce called for her in the crowd, and her father put her on his shoulders and moved to the front of the section at stage left. The fans cheered when she came onto the screen, probably because her name is Rosie and they wanted that song. "Let's see," Bruce said, back at his stationary microphone stand, his guitar back around his shoulders. "You're 10, so this song was written ... 25 years before you were born! Your father was a glint in your mother's eye!" And with that, he played Track 1, Side 1 of his first album: "Growin' Up."

"Janey Don't You Lose Heart" came next, making someone else happy to see his or her sign displayed onstage, and then he hit the midpoint of his 23-song main set. He went to "I'll Work For Your Love" off of Magic before darting back and forth through his catalog. "Youngstown" featured an insane Nils Lofgren guitar solo, "Murder Incorporated" followed with Bruce working his Fender and trading licks with Stevie, and "The Promised Land" featured blue sky and white clouds projected onto the backdrop behind the band, which made it appear like they were performing in a diorama. One young fan near the lower center stage got some extended camera time during the song. He looked to be about 13, 14 years old, and someone made a point to show him singing along during the chorus: "Mister I ain't a boy, no I'm a man, and I believe in a promised land." That kid got Bruce's harmonica after the song.

Before singing "Living In The Future," Bruce took a few minutes for his brief political message, explaining the song's influence from the last eight years. "This song is about things happening here that your parents told you growing up only happened in other places," he said. When he finished and the band picked up, the father next to me found enough energy to shout, "Take a trip to Iran!" That and some clapping during "Badlands" and "Born to Run" were pretty much all we got out of that guy the entire night. Not sure what prompted him, his wife and his two kids to come to the show, since I didn't detect any deep interest in any of them, but hey, if he wants to spent $100 per ticket to shout, "Take a trip to Iran!" that's his choice. Plus, there's the fact that the song -- and the point of the song -- has nothing to do with Iran. It's about screwing up Iraq, which pretty much happened simply by starting the whole fiasco with Iraq.

In lieu of an intermission -- which, after the effort and energy put into the first 16 songs, the band certainly deserved -- Bruce took his time getting to "Mary's Place." He walked the stage as the band played a soft backbeat of the song and he spoke of traveling "to that river" and "building a house" and building hope and love and happiness in that house. Clarence provided some soulful response to Bruce's calls. "Go to that river!" "A HOUSE!" Bruce talked a lot about that house. He seemed to like the idea of that house. And Clarence really wanted Bruce to build that house. The only drawback to "Mary's Place" was that it was not raining during the repeated audience-aided call-and-response of "Let it rain! Let it rain! Let it rain! Let it rain!"

Bruce switched it up for the next song, taking an acoustic guitar and a microphone stand down to the lower stage for "Working on the Highway." Back on the main stage, a young woman appeared without introduction next to Soozie and danced and sang backup with her. She never got any screen time, so it was hard to discern her age, but my guess is that it was a daughter of a band member. May have even been Bruce and Patti's daughter, who'll head off to college in the fall. She enjoyed herself up there, then gave Soozie a hug and left the stage after the song, with no mention of her.

"Tunnel of Love," with a catchy twist of an open, maybe a little Pet Shop Boys-y, came next, followed by the signature main-set end run from this tour of "The Rising," "Last to Die," "Long Walk Home" and "Badlands." Then the rain did come: big, heavy drops falling intermittently at first during the end of "Long Walk Home," then more steadily over, ironically, "Badlands." The drops flashed in the spotlights and cooled the place down, but we never really felt the brunt of the short shower. We got spritzes here and there, but either it was a very localized shower or the wind currents kept it from us, just a few rows from an overhang, and centered it more over the field.

By the end of "Badlands" and, therefore, the end of the set, the rain had ceased. The band took a very short break before Bruce was back at the microphone to deliver his monologue about the community food banks he supports at every tour stop. The encore opened with "Girls In Their Summer Clothes," featuring another visit to the front of the stage and lots of hand-holding with a girl of about 8 and a woman of about 58. "Jungleland" slowed things down a bit before a raucus, intense five-song run to close the show.

"Born To Run" brought the lights up, naturally, and they stayed up for "Bobby Jean" and, ironically, "Dancing in the Dark." They then finished with the fun Irish jig "American Land," the lyrics scrolling across the back of the stage, though too deep for just about anyone off to either side or too high -- so, most of the audience. Everyone knew when to sing, "Dear I hear the beer flows through the faucets all night long," though.

When the band gathered at the front of the stage after "American Land" to take a bow, Bruce had That Look on his face. It's that look of, Maybe we're not done. We caught on quickly. The crowd cheered. Bruce smiled. We cheered louder. Bruce looked at Stevie. We cheered more. Bruce and Stevie smiled. We went nuts.

I first saw That Look in Austin, Texas, in 2000. It was my third show, all on the 1999-2000 return tour, and I'd only seen him play New Jersey before this. He and Stevie played the crowd following what had been the standard show closer of the tour, "Land of Hope and Dreams," and then everyone ran back to their stations and lit into "Ramrod." I'm not a fan of the album version, but it has more appeal live, and Max loves it.

But this time, I new That Look meant something bigger than "Ramrod." The E Streeters returned to their stands and Bruce stepped up to the microphone. "A true fairy tale to open the show," he said, "and a true fairy tale to close the show." He counted off -- "ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!" -- and within the first few notes, everyone recognized "Rosalita."

Casey leaned over and said to me, "I can't believe, for such a rare song, he's played it almost every time I've seen him." And he has. Casey's been to three Springsteen stadium shows -- Giants and Shea in the summer and fall of 2003, respectively, and this one, and he's played it each time. She's seen him three other times, twice on the Vote For Change tour and once in a solo acoustic setting following the Devils & Dust release. "Rosalita" wouldn't be a possibility during any of those other three, so she's essentially 3-for-3 in seeing Bruce and Rosie together.

When Bruce and the band reunited for the 1999-2000 shows, "Rosalita" was something of a holy grail for fans. He rarely played it, but we loved it. I'd read setlists on Backstreets.com and think of the lucky fans around the country -- or at a notable New Jersey or New York closer -- who got to see this rarity. But when I first saw it, at Giants Stadium in the summer of '03, I was a bit underwhelmed. I think the combination of the buildup, plus the location of my seats so far from the stage -- at the other end of the field, upper tier, halfway up the section -- took some of the oomph out of it. Plus, he followed it with "Dancing in the Dark," when Rosie seems like she should be the show closer, no matter what. As much as I shudder to make this reference, I'll defer to Bruce's unfortunate allegiances and use this analogy: You wouldn't bring Mariano Rivera in to pitch the eighth inning, then follow him with another pitcher for the ninth. "Rosalita" is the Mariano Rivera of Bruce Springsteen's catalog.

Yet he did the same thing that October, when we saw him at Shea Stadium. Rosie came out for the eighth, but Courtney Cox's big break got the ninth.

But this time, everything was perfect. Rosie closed the show, and she rocked. Bruce even put a subtle -- and maybe unintentional -- homage to Van Morrison in there, giving it a little bit of his inflection on "Ro-ro-ro-rosie" in one of the choruses. After he finished the song in the swamps of Jersey, the band came back to the front of the stage for its final bow and we were ready to go. I didn't care if he wanted to do another; I wanted that to be the end. However, I couldn't bring myself to turn for the aisle until the lights came up.

And when they did, the best of my 16 Springsteen shows -- in various configurations, from E Street to Seeger Sessions to 9/11 benefits at the Count Basie Theater to appearances on the Today show -- was over. I found myself torn between not wanting to see another and wishing I had taken the week off to attend tonight's and Thursday's concerts. This show was that good. The band played with an energy and a fervor that, if I did not know that there are several more stadiums booked between now and the end of the summer, I might've thought this was a final farewell. But in retrospect, I think the emotion and effort we saw was the band members' expression of happiness and comfort about returning home and kicking off the final leg of what will have become a 12-month tour when it's over. They got their second wind for this last push to the finish line, and we're the ones who benefit.

Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out
Radio Nowhere
Lonesome Day
No Surrender
Adam Raised a Cain
Spirit in the Night
Summertime Blues
Brilliant Disguise
Atlantic City
Growin' Up
Janey Don't You Lose Heart
I'll Work for Your Love
Youngstown
Murder Incorporated
The Promised Land
Living in the Future
Mary's Place
Working on the Highway
Tunnel of Love
The Rising
Last to Die
Long Walk Home
Badlands

Girls In Their Summer Clothes
Jungleland
Born to Run
Bobby Jean
Dancing in the Dark
American Land
Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)

Trapped in the tunnel with an angry driver

Car 495 -- that driver is not a relaxed man. From the taxi scramble outside Marquee to the 45-minute exodus through the traffic-clogged Lincoln Tunnel, he cursed and muttered under his breath in both broken English and his native language -- whatever it was, because I had no clue. His incessant outbursts of "Stupid!" or "Mother fuck!" or a foreign phrase had me yearning for a driver with GPS, so I could give him my address, turn on my iPod, and go to sleep.

Scenes from the ride home, June 21

• On the corner of 10th and 25th, Joe's Tavern is no more.
• "Hotel California" comes from a car as we're stuck near Marquee. It's bad tonight; we're stopped for three red/green lights amid the cry of car horns.
• Then, at the light at Dyer Ave., a cop pulls up behind us, though in the left lane, lights flashing. He gets on his loudspeaker and says, "White Cadillac, when the light turns green, make a left turn." I look at the woman at the wheel. She glances in her rearview mirror and says to her friend, "That's me" -- then tries to make a right turn, sending her the wrong way on a one-way street. Upon realizing her error, she plans to pull over just past the intersection, essentially in the direction we've just gone, heading through the short tunnels under the streets to the Lincoln Tunnel entrance. The cop speaks up again, telling her to back up and make a left (his emphasis). Then we're gone, out of range, and I can only imagine the shit she was in.
• It's the longest day of the year, the summer solstice, and the first light of dawn colors the sky behind me as we head west, home, sunrise barely an hour away.
  

I wish that I believed in fate

Contemplating my favorite R.E.M. songs on the train as I headed into the city for the show:

• Belong
• Cuyahoga
• Voice of Harold
• Electrolyte
• Imitation of Life
• Man on the Moon
• The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite

They were as good as ever, and "Electrolyte" and "Man on the Moon" made it onto the setlist. I found a new appreciation for "(Don't Go Back to) Rockville," too, with Mike Mills on lead vocals in a straw cowboy hat.

The National opened and gave us a great, high-energy set. I'm actually drawn more to their live performances than the scattered studio tracks I have or have heard so far. But I was struck by a line from "Mr. November," which was played "For Barack":

I wish that I believed in fate
I wish I didn't sleep so late.

That line was the best of the night, until maybe the one on the T-shirt I saw on the 11:42 train to Trenton heading home:

Haikus are easy
But sometimes they don't make sense
Refrigerator

"Is this the bar from Coyote Ugly?"

Two women walked into Red Rocks a bit overdressed for the 10th Avenue dive. One wore a billowy summer dress, the other white pants and an off-the-shoulder blouse. She's the one who tapped me on the arm and asked, "What bar are we in?" Moments later came the follow-up: "Is this the bar from Coyote Ugly, or was that Hogs & Heffers?"

B.O.B. wedding

We tend to stay until the end at weddings, walking out slowly, saying our goodbyes as the band or DJ packs up, the lights on full. Perhaps our speech is slurred after hours of open-bar access, maybe we're still yelling to be heard even though the music has stopped. If we were dancing, my tie is loosened and the top button undone, my jacked most likely draped over my arm.

Natalie and Robby's wedding wasn't anything like that, yet it still lingers as one of the most memorable and enjoyable nuptials we've attended. From the ceremony inside the Red Barn at Hampshire College to the reception at the Eric Carle Museum nearby, it was a unique and warm-and-fuzzy time cast in the soft glow of a Barbara Walters special, or so it seemed.

They were supposed to get married beneath the big tree (just like Jeff and Sara), but the threat of rain forced a decision a few hours beforehand to have it inside the barn. The rain held off throughout the ceremony, but then started to fall as the families stood in the receiving line outside. So we all piled into the shuttle vans to head over to the museum for the reception. But the skies opened into the first full storm of summer, the type of deluge that turns everything gray. The water hit the sidewalks with such force that a mist settled at knee level and below. We waited, a line of rented vans hoping for a break in the weather. I sat looking to the west, where a small break in the clouds let through a bright glow where the sun was setting.

Occasionally, someone or a couple would make a run for it, either from a van or their own cars, sprinting through the waterfall to the doors. We sat and watched, calling out in mock horror, like viewers at a slasher movie. "What are you doing!?" "Don't run for it! That'll only make it worse!"

Our patience paid off; we walked leisurely beneath umbrellas once the downpour had lessened into a soft shower, and we drank our cocktails and munched on appetizers while looking through the windows of the museum gift shop. The galleries were open during the cocktail hour, but we missed the opportunity to meander through them. The long, narrow layout of the Great Hall put the DJ and dance floor near the entrance, with the tables stretching back along the windows and murals. We ate well, drank better and chatted throughout the night. Maybe it was the good company, maybe distance to the parquet or maybe just the mood, but Casey and I stayed at our table, as did most of our friends. The urge to dance didn't strike us.

Despite our sedentary tendencies, the end of the night mirrored so many other weddings we've attended. As we walked out, I found myself repeating the last song I heard over and over,
the image of a happily spastic groom and a wide-eyed, brilliantly grinning bride dancing together. All our eyes were on them as they shook, shimmied, gyrated and maybe even crunked to Outkast, but they were lost in their own world. They were thrilled and ecstatic to have us all there, but they didn't need us at that moment.

It was a bit sad to leave before it was all over. A small part of me wanted to start dancing and keep drinking, but a greater part of me was tired after a week on the road and a plan to leave shortly after waking up in the morning to get home in three hours and have a quiet afternoon before work. Planning vacations around weddings are a lot of fun, but I think it's better to put the wedding at the beginning -- or the middle -- of the trip, rather than at the end. We've done it that way twice, spending a week driving from New Jersey to South Bend, with stops in Pittsburgh and Chicago for fun, and cruising New England on this trip. But by the end, we're a little worn down and the next morning means the final drive back home. When we did it from South Bend, we had about 12 hours ahead of us, so we had to be on the road by about 9 a.m. Traveling after the wedding also means less care has to be taken to keep the wedding outfits neat and clean.

Looking back, I also realize how lax I've become in recent years about taking pictures with friends at these gatherings. Of our last few weddings and several barbecues or dinners we've had at hour house in the last year or two, I have virtually no photos. When we go on vacation, I'm diligent about catching every stop, every scenic location, but I rarely make a point to get the two of us into the pictures. People are going to want to be sure that we're really taking these trips together (unless we're not), and I'm sure we'll look back on some of these events and wonder why we don't have the digital images to back up our mental ones.

So there's my summer resolution: More photos, of us and our friends. Starting ... now. Well, not
this moment as I sit unshowered in shorts and an old Notre Dame T-shirt, but our next outing or gathering.

License plate games

A sampling of vanity plates seen during our five days in Maine. All are Maine tags, unless otherwise noted.

• MAINYAX
• ME-1
• SPLDWFE
• LTLLMBS
• GRILLI
• FRFISH

• DEN KAT (on an RV)
• USE SUN
• TOLEDO (on a Connecticut plate)
• SCCRMOM (on an SUV)
• PR8 SHIP
• OUR SAAB
• IOWAN (on a Maine plate)
• NASS CAR (he was pulled over by the po-lice. Seriously)
• MRGUMPY (at first, I thought it said Mr. Grumpy)
  
• TRVLBUG (on a VW bug)
• RCE & BNS (yes, it actually had the &)

• TKL BOX
• TNKA TRK
  

Lunch at Two Lights

Our last stop before leaving Maine was all Casey's doing. I'm not sure if she researched Edward Hopper's "Lighthouse at Two Lights" first or the lobster rolls first, but it was a stop that had something for both of us.

Sticking to our schedule to allow enough time both at Cape Elizabeth and to make the drive to Northampton, Massachusetts, by 5 p.m., we checked out of the Eastland by 10:30 a.m. and found our way to the point. There's little out that way other than the residences and the Lobster Shack, and at 11 a.m., there were just one or two other cars in the two parking areas. With no access to the lighthouse and at least half an hour until we could think about eating, we busied ourselves on the rocks. I did so by looking for fresh angles -- and tidal pool reflections -- of the East Light; Casey did so more by finding a spot to sit and watch me and the ocean.

I was a little disappointed that there was no closer access to the light, but at the same time, I'd give anything to have the means to own a house -- particularly the one with the West tower -- out at the end of Two Lights Road.

When it got closer to noon and we saw more and more cars pulling up to the lot, their passengers climbing the steps to the deck of the Lobster Shack, we decided to head there ourselves to order lunch and beat the rush we saw coming. By the time we sat down after placing our order at the counter, the line was out the door. (That only made it about five people deep, since there's not much room inside to stand if you're not at the counter ordering, but it was still better to get in before that line started forming.)

Casey's lobster roll was worth the trip, and my cheeseburger was passable, but I was happy enough with bagging another lighthouse, and one I've admired for a long time when it was a poster on my bedroom wall.

Our Maine odyssey ended shortly after we abandoned the remainder of our whoopie pies (otherwise known as gobs in western Pennsylvania, but seeing as how these had cream in the middle instead of icing -- and therefore weren't as tasty -- I'm referring to them as whoopie pies) and got back in the car. With enough time to spare, we detoured in Wells, Maine, to visit The Lighthouse Depot, if only to further my beacon nerd-dom, and then enjoyed a sun-splashed cruise through northern Massachusetts to the quaint town of Northampton for the wedding weekend.

Lighthouse blitz: Three in a day

If you want to see several lighthouses in one manageable afternoon excursion, South Portland and Cape Elizabeth, Maine, is a good place to start. (Monmouth County, New Jersey, is as well, but I've already done that one.)

After catching a glimpse of Mt. Washington from the seventh-floor elevator lobby at our hotel, we drove down to Portland Head Light, perched along the rocky shore at Fort Williams Park. The location reminded me of Sandy Hook, with the lighthouse nestled in among the crumbling ruins of the former gunneries and batteries of an early-century military installation. With so many recreational options within the rather compact park -- vast lawns for frolicking, sunning or kiting; an inlet for mild water play; the lighthouse for nautical interest; the fort remains for military buffs -- there wasn't one part that was overly crowded. We encountered more people at the lighthouse than any other part of the park, but I suppose that's to be expected. It wasn't crowded in any sense, either.

Most intriguing was the hulking frame of Goddard Mansion, an 1858 estate built on a hill overlooking the sea and the lighthouse. Trees now shield the remains from a wide-open view of the horizon, but it's hard to miss the site upon entering the park. All that remains is the stone shell of the building, the windows and doors merely open frames (with those at ground level fenced off to prevent entry). It's a stark contrast to what it once was more than a hundred years ago.

History of the mansion (beyond what is written on that plaque at the site) seems scattered and limited, but until 1981, there was more there. On March 11 of that year, the Cape Fire Dept. burned the interior, presumably to remove the dangers inherent in a neglected, crumbling 123-year-old structure. Stripped as it is, it looks smaller, not quite a "mansion," but the potential is certainly there. Or was.

We cruised northward again, back toward Portland (into South Portland) and found the Breakwater Lighthouse, or Bug Light. It sits closer to downtown Portland than the others, a last warning for ships rounding the point on their way into the harbor. Despite the modest park and vast parking lot, it was still a rather quiet, serene spot. No ships came through and the folks who were on hand sat quietly in their cars or along the waterfront. I found that throughout the day -- despite not going anywhere remote or being truly alone, these ventures were generally peaceful, solitary explorations for us. Perhaps a post-Memorial Day Thursday isn't such a hot time for tourists in southern Maine.

The final stop -- and the point at which I realized I was probably getting a bit of a pinkish hue on my arms, neck and the tops of my flip-flopped adorned feet -- was the Spring Point Ledge Lighthouse, propped up at the end of a long jetty resting atop the Spring Point Ledge, which claimed many a ship in the 19th Century. The jetty -- or breakwater -- wasn't always there. It was added in 1951 (so says an online history).

Not knowing when I'd have this chance again, I had to make the trek out to the light itself. Had I known I'd be crossing the rocky equivalent of nearly three football fields -- with large gaps between the hunks of granite and a stiff wind blowing across the water -- when I got dressed in the morning, I would've worn socks and sneakers instead of flip-flops. As a result, I spent the trip out there focused on my footing and refusing to look to either side, or even back to Casey. "You had the car keys," she pointed out later, "so I'm glad you didn't fall in."

At the end, I felt alone, abandoned, marooned. Sure, the hopscotch path of rocks connected me to the mainland, but when I stepped beneath the lighthouse's overhang and behind it, I had nothing but Casco Bay in front of me and the black base of the light behind me. The route I had just traversed was no longer visible and, because of my focus, not too fresh in my mind. By putting blinders on to watch my footing, I didn't take in my surroundings, so in a way it was as if I'd transported myself to the light without making the long, windy walk. My nerves got the best of me, though, when I tried to complete the circuit around the base and I chickened out when I came upon the largest gap I'd encountered on the breakwater. With my camera around my neck and the backpack slung over my shoulders, I didn't feel confidence in my balance should I attempt the short leap -- in flip-flops, with the swirling wind. I managed to get far enough around to see the speck of Casey sitting on the shore, so I visually completed the circuit, but I was OK with the fact that I didn't make it those last 10 feet to make the imaginary red line of my route meet in a lasso around the light.

Before returning across the breakwater, I put my camera back in its bag and bounded like Q-bert back across the granite. Casey and I got back in the car and returned to Portland, taking a quick walk around the neighborhood and taking showers before heading off for drinks and dinner (chauffeured, again, by the hotel).

We, of course, made it back to our room in time for the season finale of Lost. Well worth it, too.

From country mice to city mice

Binghamton Mets @ Portland Sea Dogs, 5/28/08

We left Whitefield in the morning to make our way down to Portland in a very meticulously planned day. The first stop was 45 minutes down Route 1 in Brunswick, to see the refurbished art museum at Bowdoin College.

(I guess, technically, the first stop was somewhere on Route 218, when a duck crossing the road forced Casey to pause. "It looks like it's carrying something," I said. But Casey noticed first: "No!" she said. "Those are ducklings! I just made way for ducklings!")

After visiting the museum and a few other campus buildings, we had lunch in Brunswick and then departed for Freeport in an effort to boost the economy at the L.L. Bean Factory Outlet and flagship store, plus a quick look at the J. Crew outlet that resulted in my purchase of a linen suit. Bring on the August weddings now, bitches!

We arrived in Portland a little after 4 p.m., checked into the Eastland Park Hotel and soon made our way to Hadlock Field for a minor league ballgame. (I won't bore you with the details, but if you're interested, apparate here.)

With first pitch at 6:05 p.m., we were out of there by 8:30 and on our way down to J's Oyster Bar on the waterfront for a late snack. In what seemed like a bit of New England hospitality, we were chauffeured there by a hotel bellboy. When Casey asked at the front desk if they could call a cab for us, the woman said, "I can take you." At first I took her literally, thinking she was about to finish her shift and would drive us down there herself. What she meant was that she'd check to see if one of the drivers was available, and he was. He took us down there and, after Casey called the desk when we were finished, he came back to pick us up. I tipped him five bucks each time, figuring that was both sufficient enough for him and still a bit of a discount for us had we taken a cab, which would've been fare plus tip. And he deserved it, having chosen to go to school at Vanderbilt instead of following his siblings to Boston College.

Back at the point

After our second breakfast in as many days at Two Cats, we drove into Bar Harbor to do some quick shopping -- mainly beer at Bar Harbor Brewing Co. -- and made the scenic, meandering, mostly coastal drive from Mount Desert Island to Pemaquid Point.


View Larger Map

The beauty of the drive was that it rained. It rained while we were in the car, not on the rocks at Pemaquid, not in the morning in Bar Harbor, and not at any other point during the trip, except for when we tried to get from the vans into the reception after the wedding, but that story will come later.

We had no specific plans for this day, and my uncle and family wouldn't be home until the early evening, so Casey and I made Pemaquid our time-killing stopover. I must've shot this lighthouse more than any other, with every camera I've ever owned, beginning with my first -- a Kodak disk point-and-shoot. It may be 500 miles from where I grew up, I have to have photographed it more than Twin Lights or Sandy Hook, only minutes from home. But those, I'd visit on a whim, not always with a camera, and I always knew I could go back at any time to shoot them.

Pemaquid is always a planned visit, an outing on its own. On weekends in the height of summer -- and with calmer seas -- the rocks would be teeming with visitors. But none on this day. The sea was so violent (I should've pulled out my video camera, but neglected to) that many rocks I've ventured to or sat on pondering calmer waters were completely submerged.

We'd come and stayed for hours, splitting up to explore on our own time, at our own pace, setting a time and place to meet for a picnic or to head back to Damariscotta. I'd go from the rocks on the east side of the point and make my way around to the west side; I'd bound down to the end of a chain-link fence separating the park from a souvenir shop and restaurant next door and climb the steps to peruse the trinkets that way, rather than going around from the entrance to the parking lot.

On days the sea isn't so active, we'd sit near the edge, on sun-dried metamorphic bedrock, and look down into the calm, clear water and marvel at how far down we could see. I'd take routes less traveled, those not necessarily given over to walking, but areas where I'd need to find footholds and maybe reach up for a crack to grab for leverage, imagining myself a chalk-dusted free climber on the face of El Capitan. I'd spread myself out across the point and come across one family member or another, popping up beside them unnoticed, prompting a, "Where did you come from?" reaction.

Pemaquid without people is an eerie place. It was strange to hear nothing but the waves crashing into the earth, unnatural to see the rocks in such an unadorned, natural state. Thinking back to it now, it's my most unique Pemaquid visit, perhaps my most memorable. Yet at the time, I spent as long as I could sitting on the rocks, watching the frothing sea, bearing the cold May wind. I waited as long as I could before I had to get up again and start moving; now I wish I'd stayed five minutes longer to take it in just a little more.

After a few photos of the lighthouse with the rocks in the foreground, I noticed something unusual in the light tower: movement. A blue jacket moving. Someone was up there! I'd never seen anyone up there -- the light itself had never been opened in all those years of visiting -- so I immediately assumed what I would find out momentarily, that the tower itself was indeed open for exploration. Casey and I went in and listened as the volunteer explained the light's history to two older men, and then the four of us climbed the spiral staircase together. There was just enough room at the top for the four of us, but Casey got her 360-degree view and carefully descended. I remained to get the photos I wanted, then shuffled around to trade places with the two other men and see the view on the other side of the lens. Then I waited them out, letting them get their fill and start the climb down so I could have a minute to myself at the top. If I looked to the southeast, all I could see were the rocks and the small red shack perched atop them -- a view that had to be similar to that seen by the long list of keepers who served at Pemaquid Point.

We made our way back up to Route 1 and headed east a few miles to Round Top, darting between the raindrops for the best ice cream north of Four Seas. (I can't decide which I like better.) We stood at the window to the patio, watching the rain fall on the rolling hills that lead down to the Damariscotta River, out of sight from our vantage point. Years ago, my uncle has told me, those fields were home to the cows that provided the milk from which the ice cream was made -- truly a Maine touch.

From there, I took us to my uncle's through Head Tide, a cluster of 19th-century buildings along the Sheepscot River, just a few miles downstream from my uncle's property. Back in college, Bryan and I canoed from their house down through Head Tide (portaging around the dam) and a few miles beyond the village. I noticed a sign indicating some of the historic buildings were for sale -- or had been sold. Alas, if only I'd known (and had the money).

Uncle Johnny arrived home shortly after we pulled into the driveway (and sat in the car during the downpour, rather than making a dash for the porch), and we spent the evening eating and talking. With the soaking grass, I skipped my ritual walk through the woods down to the river, and when I walked out to the car to retrieve my camera just before bed, I took a few minutes to stare up at the sky. The clouds had cleared away and left only star-speckled space. I couldn't make out the Milky Way -- either because I didn't allow my eyes to adjust fully or the lights from the house washed it out -- but I did see a shooting star in the short time I stood there with my head cocked all the way back. I considered for only a moment setting up the tripod to attempt some star trails photos, but I was tired and not up for the work that would have been necessary -- finding a flashlight, putting on my hiking boots because of the wet grass, tromping across the field to get enough distance from the house and finding just the right spot. I regret the lack of ideal conditions, not the choice I made, and it only has me itching to go back. Soon.

Acadian drifting

Acadia is the first national park east of the Mississippi River and is the only national park in the Northeast. There are dozens of places under the National Park Service's jurisdiction, but they're all National Historic Sites, National Historical Parks, and National Seashores, Recreation Areas, Monuments and the like. If you're looking for a vast, protected, wild and remote park along the lines of Yellowstone, Yosemite, Big Bend or Great Smoky Mountains, Acadia is it in the Northeast. (The NPS includes Virginia in the Northeast Region, but when most people say "northeast," they're not thinking of anything south of Maryland -- if that. Personally, I'd put Virginia in the mid-Atlantic region.)

It's also probably the first national park I visited. Somewhere along the way, on one of those childhood Augusts in Maine, Mom and Dad decided to make the long drive there and back in a day. They probably still have a picture of my sister and me along that rocky coast. I remember the stop at Thunder Hole, too, which, in my mind, was active that day. Johnny, despite his 30-something years living in Maine, doesn't think he's ever seen it crashing and frothing the way it does at its peak.

My last visit there was four or five years ago, when my sister, our cousin Christine and I drove up there and hiked the 3-mile trail around Jordan Pond. We also took the short but steep path up The Bubbles, which took our breath away on the climb -- as I was on all fours, reaching for a handhold on a rock on a particularly vertical part of the path, I wondered if I was really in such terrible physical shape -- and then again at the top. While Casey and I repeated the Jordan Pond hike, I wasn't about to force her up there (and I wasn't so excited about it myself), so we continued around the pond, covering the 3.2 miles in about 90 minutes.

We skipped the drive up Cadillac Mountain to see if Thunder Hold was active, but it was anything but. The sea was quite calm and a dozen people stood along the rail looking down into the hole, perhaps wondering what it was they were supposed to be seeing. We continued around the park loop road and made our way to Bass Harbor.

I've seen dozens of pictures of the Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse and always wanted to see it for myself. It didn't disappoint -- a small, sturdy sentinel set in a remote point at the southernmost point of Mt. Desert Island. I only disappointed myself, not noticing the path at the eastern end of the parking lot that would've taken us to the east side of the light to get the view that is seen in many of the photos of the point that have been published. It reminded me of the Cape Meares Lighthouse in Oregon, which Matt, Dave and I visited on a quiet, calm August evening several years ago -- before any of us were married or even knew our current wives (at least that way, since Dave had known Mandy, but hadn't dated her yet). It would've been another quiet seaside visit to a remote outpost were it not for the obnoxious teens who were blatantly ignoring the signs about keeping off the grass and screaming and laughing as if it were their backyard. (And if, by chance, one of them is the spawn of the current inhabitants of the living quarters, then damn, I'm jealous.)

Bass Harbor Light became the beginning of a lighthouse odyssey I did not foresee becoming a chapter of this trip. I figured we'd get to Bass Harbor, Pemaquid and Portland Head. But in researching Portland Head (myself) and lobster rolls (Casey), we discovered three others that we incorporated into the trip. The final tally after five mornings in Maine was six lighthouses: one each on Monday and Tuesday, three on Thursday and another on Friday. (Not counting the one in the lobby of Portland's Eastland Park Hotel and the two or three others we saw scattered around Portland. Or the Lighthouse Depot in Wells.)

That evening, we walked into town, exploring Bar Harbor beyond the Thirsty Whale. We sampled the Bar Harbor Brewing Co.'s concoctions (not to be confused with the larger Atlantic Brewing Co., also on Mt. Desert Island) and added it to our itinerary for the next morning, when we'd be stopping at a few stores to pick up some things we didn't want to lug around with us the rest of the night. We got ice cream and explored Geddy's kitsch (buying a few license plates and reigniting the collecting bug in me; I'm now scouring eBay for any plates depicting lighthouses) in the basement shop before going upstairs to eat at the bar. Fabulous pizzas -- ricotta, pesto, onion and garlic for me; clam pizza (actually better than Frank Pepe's in New Haven) for Casey -- and a bathroom designation to remember.

We adored Bar Harbor. A town compact enough to be traversable without wearing yourself out, it still provides plenty of variety in shops, restaurants and bars. There was lodging aplenty, and I'd go back every May if I could, beating the crowds and enjoying the idyllic town on the cusp of the high season, rather than in the midst of it. We were also early enough -- or coastal enough -- to not even think of the black flies. If there were any, they didn't find us. From what the bartenders told us, mid-June is when the pace starts to pick up, and the Fourth of July is the true start of their summer season. New Jersey's tourist season runs from Memorial Day to Labor Day; Maine's starts around the Fourth and -- my guess is -- finishes up around Columbus Day, after the leaf peepers have departed to chase the color south.


Mt. Desert Island isn't far from the Maineland (get it?), and if not for the name, you might not even notice it is an island. Yet with Bar Harbor as its hub -- capital, county seat, etc. -- the protected wilderness at its center and some of the far reaches, and the scenic coast encompassing it all, it reminded me a bit of Nantucket. MDI is far enough up there (nine hours from NYC, after all) to be as remote as the island two hours by ferry (well, car ferry) off of Cape Cod. And I love Nantucket. If I had the money for my own plane, I'd park it at Teterboro and jet up to MDI once a month, using it as a vacation getaway the way the Rockefellers, Astors and the like did in the 1800s.

Or so I like to think.

Up to Maine

Google Maps said our 499-mile drive up to Bar Harbor, Maine, would take 8 hours, 49 minutes. We left the house just before 9 a.m., topped off the gas tank -- worried about what kind of prices we'd find in New England -- and got on the road in earnest at 9:01 a.m. After a smooth ride across the Tappan Zee, up the Merritt, through Massachusetts and up the Maine Turnpike, we exited to more local roads at Bangor and headed for the coast. We skirted the northeast side of Mt. Desert Island and pulled into the Bar Harbor Manor Inn at 5:50 p.m.

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That's 8 hours, 49 minutes for those of you keeping score at home. And that map up there is the route from the police station in our town, which is close enough.

In an effort to conserve fuel, I stayed close to the speed limit and we were fortunate to remain at a comfortable cruising speed throughout the drive -- no traffic hiccups whatsoever -- and after filling up in Freeport, I had Casey do the quick math: We got 32 miles per gallon on the first 350 miles or thereabouts, a great number for my eight-year-old Grand Am.

I could do the drive without maps, even though it's been a few years since I'd been to Maine. Every August for 10 or 15 years, we'd spend a week to 10 days at my uncle's. Our trips would be a mix of the familiar and the new -- every year, without fail, we'd have the checklist of places we had to get to before the visit was up. Damariscotta Lake, Pemaquid Point, Wiscassett, Freeport, Elmer's Barn. Dad would get up early in the mornings and go fishing, and I'd try to get a ride in on the tractor (I think my aunt and uncle liked having someone else mow the expansive lawn for them) and we'd swim in the river. And each year, we'd add a new side trip or an every-other year destination to mix things up. Camden/Lincolnville, a county fair, Augusta, Portland, Boothbay Harbor, Acadia National Park.

This trip was to be a lot of the new and a touch of the familiar. Casey and I started with two nights in Bar Harbor, a chance to see the town and explore Acadia at a more leisurely pace (instead of the harried day trips sandwiched between a 2 1/2 or 3-hour drive from my uncle's and back). From there it would be on to Whitefield for a night with the family, then down to Portland for two more nights before moving on to the Massachusetts countryside for a wedding.

By lunchtime -- that is, the time we were hungry enough for lunch -- we were in Massachusetts (turkey chortle), so I suggested another old DC family favorite: Skip's Diner in Chelmsford. (And we stopped having no idea that it's been sold and will be gone before the end of the year.) Casey had a hot turkey sandwich with gravy and mashed potatoes and I deviated from my childhood standby -- grilled cheese and french fries -- for baked manicotti. Still damn good. And even with a 30-45-minute lunch break, we still made it to Bar Harbor in Google Maps' predicted time.

Casey drove after lunch, so I slept for a little, but I was awake as we crossed the Piscataqua River and entered Maine. Rolling north, I scanned the roadside for yet another landmark I recalled from those childhood summers: a small cluster of gravestones seemingly in the middle of nowhere, other than a few dozen feet from the Maine Turnpike macadam. I had my camera ready in case I anticipated it correctly so that I could capture it, but it wouldn't have mattered.

As I wrote in my road trip journal:

The small cemetery along the Turnpike in Maine is two miles before the Kennebunk service area, or just befor emile marker 24. It's much closer to the highway than I remember and, well, cleaner. Not as colonial and rustic as I'd pictured. It sits directly on the other side of the guardrail, its markers a brilliant white and a flag or bouquet or two. In my mind, it sat back from the road, among the trees, its stones grimy and gray, the grass high, no flowers or flags to bring a shot of color to the grays, greens and browns around it.

After the Freeport fill-up, I got back behind the wheel because I simply love driving the hills and curves of Maine and we made it to Bar Harbor before 6 p.m., passing Pirate's Cove miniature golf on the way. After checking in, that's right where we headed to spend an hour not sitting. And we weren't hungry for dinner, yet. On the way, my new Maine playlist for the trip was fortuitously timed right to play Howie Day as we left Bangor, his hometown.

Bar Harbor Manor is in a great location on the edge of town near Acadia, close enough to walk into the heart of the village and drink to our hearts' content. Which we did at the Thirsty Whale after mini-golf. But after a long day of driving behind us and a long day of exploring ahead of us, we didn't stay much past one post-dinner beer. We headed back to the Manor satisfied and eager for the start of our vacation in earnest.

I know I say this all the time, but ...

Another vacation is upon us. For the first time in nearly two years since working here, I'm taking an extended vacation. Essentially nine days will pass after I walk out of the office early Saturday morning until I walk back in on the evening of June 1. Not counting the week off we get for Christmas/New Year's, this is my first vacation since Bryan and I went out West to drive around the Rockies.

(And sadly, I've yet to write about that trip, despite a yearning to do so.)

The trip is simple enough: Sunday to Sunday, Maine and Massachusetts. Two familiar states, though we'll be in less-familiar areas. And so, with this combination of the known and the new, I can feel the urges -- to photograph, to ruminate, to carry around and pull out that Moleskin notebook -- pushing to the fore. It's a road trip -- yes, a road trip in tough economic, oil-driven times -- so that will allow for a little over-packing in the form of the laptop, the tripod, etc. Who knows how much I'll actually use it on the road (our first hotel does have WiFi), but at least it will allow me to upload photos daily and not have to worry about conserving memory card space.

I'm stoked to get away, though. The long break will be nice; getting back to Maine will be wonderful. Exploring Bar Harbor and Acadia more closely will be an adventure, seeing my family in Wiscasset will be fun and a couple of nights in Portland -- with trips to Freeport and a Sea Dogs game -- will complete the exploration of Maine's mid-coast. I've wanted to see Portland's Hadlock Field for seven years, ever since Derrick Lankford told me he loved traveling there and heading down to the harbor.

After Maine, we head to Amherst, Massachusetts, for a wedding -- and surely a lot of drinking. But the best part will simply be getting away. I've taken on more responsibilities at work in the past few months, so that even when I'm off, I kind of have to be paying attention to what's going on in baseball. But next week, I'm free to ignore all that.

I can't wait.

Elevator music x3

The iPod sense the moment again -- playing Beck's "Elevator Music" as I'm reading Nick Paumgarten's elevator feature in The New Yorker -- and waiting for the elevator on my way up to the office.

Shakin' at the Shack on a rainy afternoon

So maybe it was a little rainy out on Friday afternoon. And maybe I didn't need to head into work an hour early so that I could stand in Madison Square Park and eat a double cheeseburger ... then go back for a cone of the custard flavor of the day, red velvet.

But it was RED VELVET. Chunks of the best cake around mixed into Shake Shack's soft-serve vanilla. Available only on Fridays in May, and I don't work again on Fridays in May.

I went back and forth with the decision all afternoon. I could've used the extra hour at home to read or knock another show off the DVR, but when it looked like I might hit a pocket without rain -- or, at worst, a light drizzle -- by the time I got to the park, I decided to forge on. Once there, I got what I'd hoped for: no line and a quick order and dinner. With no place to sit (it did rain throughout the afternoon), I skipped the fries and allowed myself the extra patty on the burger.

Afterward, my intention was to take the M23 bus west to either Eighth Ave. (to take the subway down to 14th) or Ninth (and walk to Chelsea Market), but with no sign of the bus, the rain picking up and the ice cream making me cold, I decided to take another $2 off my Metrocard and take the R train down to Union Square, then hop the L over to Eighth Ave. Only, in my food coma I didn't think as I turned and descended the nearest stairs to the subway. It was only as I was finishing the swipe through the turnstile that I realized that this station has no access between uptown and downtown trains -- and I was on the uptown side, needing to go downtown.

But I wasn't about to waste the two bucks, so I took the W up to 42nd St., walked the stank tunnel over to the A/C/E line at the Port Authority, and took the E down to 14th and walked the block over to Ninth Ave. as on any other day.

Completely worth it, too. Looking at the photo now, I'm craving another burger.

On the corner of 15th and 8th

A chocolate lab with a light square patch of fur barks excitedly as he meets a long-haired, shaggy golden retriever before crossing 8th Avenue.

A man sits on a step outside the corner branch of a Washington Mutual talking into the headset of his iPhone (sigh, New York) as people emerge from the subway.

A cool breeze blows east from the Hudson as the Cowboy Junkies' "River Song Triology, Part 1" plays a soundtrack dichotomous to rush-hour dusk in the city.

'Not in the car, sweetheart'

Stuck in the inevitable Sunday-morning traffic in front of Marquee, the front passenger door of a Town Car beside us opens and a girl leans down to avoid puking in the front seat. When she sits up and closes the door, she sees me as I notice the amusement on the driver's face.

My drivers' luck

Am I bad luck for the drivers? Tonight's -- Car 137 -- told me how last time he took me home (March 25), he stopped for coffee at the Dunkin' Donuts down the street from the house. Just before pulling out of his parking space, a woman crashed into him. When police arrived, she said he had backed up, and her insurance refuses to pay for the repairs.

I've also been in a car hit head-on by a drunk driver, one rear-ended by an 18-wheeler (a tap that was brushed off), and in at least two stopped by cops (one got a speeding ticket, the other was questioned because another driver called to report him when he alternated between driving too slow, too fast and weaving between lanes -- including a stop at a light at which he straddled the lanes).