Beer me: Zywiec

A light, crisp beer made of "pure mountain water" (so says the label), Zywiec is "famous worldwide" (also on the label). There's nothing special in the flavor -- it doesn't floor me the way Victory Prima Pils does, or Gritty McDuff's Vacationland Summer Ale can -- but it's definitely got a refreshing quality to it. And it packs a bit of a kick as far as the buzz goes. The bottles contain a pine (actually a 1 pt., 0.9 fl. oz) and by the end, you know you've finished a beer.

Could I be anymore suburban? The beer capped off a long afternoon in the yard -- mowing the lawn, edging along the sidewalks, weed-whacking where the mower wouldn't reach, and finally trimming the bushes. My arms were about to give out with the shears when a neighbor pulled up on his way out and handed me his electric hedge trimmer through the car window. "Just put it back in my garage when you're done," he said. Emboldened, I decided to trim the hedges near the front porch, too, even though I hadn't planned to do that much. But it all needed to be done, if for no other reason than rain is forecast for tomorrow and who knows when we'll see the sun again.

At least the reservoirs won't be lacking this summer -- if it ever gets here.

Two haiku in June

Summer rain cools off
a sweltering afternoon
Mist drifts at my feet

Thunderstorm has passed
this sunny June afternoon
Wish I had sunglasses

Opening day on the High Line

Ever since I first read about the decommissioned railroad tracks built over 10th Avenue and the West Side, I've been intrigued. And once they announced that the old trestle would become the High Line Park, I've eagerly anticipated my first trip up there.

I've missed the Open House New York tours that brought you up to the old, abandoned tracks, but I'm happy to settle for the refurbished park that mixes the gnarled history of rusted rails with the community gathering place of open space and abundant benches. No longer a member of the media that would be invited to press conferences and VIP previews, I'd noticed in the past few days people walking above 10th Avenue and 14th Street and knew that it must mean the park would soon be open. That day was yesterday, and so I made sure I caught an earlier train into the City so that I could alter my usual route from Christopher St. to Chelsea Market just a little and climb the steps to the park.

Not only was it a thrill to look down over the Meatpacking District and to walk over 14th St. instead of having to wait for the light to change, but it was convenient too. The park is on the way to the office, so it's not really a detour to enjoy it regularly. The only concession I'll have to make if I want to take that route is to get my ass in gear early enough to take an earlier train than the 5:04, which maximizes my time at home but leaves me no extra time to wander once I get to Manhattan. Today, that's the train I'm taking after getting home at 6 a.m. and sleeping until 1. The next sunny, cloud-dotted blue-sky day, however, and I'll have to leave myself extra time -- and pack the SLR and the wider lenses instead of just the point-and-shoot -- and enjoy more than just the Gansevoort-to-18th-St. stretch I strolled through yesterday. I've read, though, that there is an exit at 16th St., which is perfect. This could become my regular walk to work -- so long as I can refrain from stopping, or regularly make the 4:38 train out of Clifton.

Out of the icebox and into the fire

Sunny, upper 80s today, like we skipped spring and jumped right into summer -- diving into the deep end without so much as dipping a toe into the water to test its temperature.

But it won't last. Yeah, we've got three more 80-degree days through Tuesday, but on Wednesday we're down into the 60s again and then the rest of the week will bounce between mid-60s to mid-70s. I'll take that.

I broke out a new pair of sneakers today, and whenever I put on a set for the first time, I feel like I'm sporting clown shoes. They just look big -- oversized -- on my feet until I've worn them enough to break them in, maybe soften the edges a bit and get them to relax their rigid out-of-the-box shape a little.

I also need to ignore the fact that in daylight, the shade of navy blue and yellow that New Balance "N" and accents are closely resemble the maize and blue of Michigan. I swear the colors looked more blue and gold when I bought these in the L.L. Bean factory store last year. But I guess I can't complain too much for a $50 pair of sneaks.

The kind of weekend I live for

The neon lights of the vertical cinema sign along Route 495 in North Bergen read "ema 12," with the letters stacked upon one another and the numbers paired up below them. The windows of the car were beginning to fog up, as if the defrost wasn't working, but it was only the driver who chose not to turn it on yet. The cloudy windows coupled with a light mist falling in the early-morning hours teamed up to create a time warp, a sense that what I was looking at wasn't present-day, but a long-ago image seen in a book or a movie or described in a piece of spontaneous bop prose tucked away in a Kerouac novel.

For no particular reason, I conjured the thought of a family driving past the theater with a young daughter named Ema -- the singular M one of those naming anomalies parents seem fond of these days, like Mychael or Jayde or Kacee -- and pointing out the failure of fate that personalized the sign for her. And then I slipped into a nostalgic recap of a lovely weekend, the kind I don't get to have regularly because I tend to work on Saturday nights and the kind that you make plans for in advance and hope when the time comes that the events live up to your expectations, and they did just that.

I slept until nearly noon on Saturday after working Friday night, but when I did wake up, the day was bright and beautiful -- high 60s, sunny, truly springtime. I went for my first run in weeks, and the first in just shorts and a T-shirt -- no need for long sleeves or long spandex under my shorts. Casey and I ran a few errands (apparently joining everyone else in Clifton in taking our cardboard to the recycling center, judging by the three overflowing dumpsters and stacks of boxes around each one) and then prepared for a night in the city.

Casey chose Shoolbred's and we settled into the soft chairs around the fireplace. Friends trickled in and we ordered some food and more and more beer. The first couple of hours went by at a pleasantly slow pace, but then the last two merged into a blur of fluttering from conversation to refill to conversation. Before I knew it, we were outside on a busy Second Avenue hailing a cab to take us home. I remember few goodbyes, and Casey says she asked me for money when she settled the tab and that I pulled out my wallet, handed her $40, and replaced my wallet. Of this, I have no recollection. I'm still amazed that I made it out of there with my jacket and the items divided among its pockets (none of which have any kind of closure): my camera, wallet, Moleskin and a pen.

Casey and I were headed back to Hoboken to get the train home to Clifton, and Nate and Marie were on their way to Nate's apartment there, so he took charge and negotiated a deal with the driver of a Town Car. We got in -- Nate in the front, me between the women in the back seat -- and headed for the Holland Tunnel. No longer with any sense of time, I'm not sure how long we sat in traffic before realizing the Holland Tunnel was closed. Nor do I know how long it took to get up to the Lincoln Tunnel, but somewhere in there -- when we had finally started moving with any progress -- I realized that the flashing city outside the windows was nauseating me, so I stared down and focused on my rolled-up jacket in my arms and maintained a grin on my face for the sole reason that Jorja Fox's character on CSI once said that smiling -- presumably the muscles involved -- suppresses the gag reflex.

I succeeded; had this been an eating -- or drinking -- contest, I wouldn't have been disqualified for regurgitating any of what I'd put down. Where we failed, though, was getting to Hoboken in time. When we arrived at the 36th St. entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel, I was able -- thankfully -- to look up and see the cars backed up on the access road. I know from experience that a backup at this point means a long drive beneath the Hudson -- 30 minutes, 45 minutes, an hour maybe. Casey and I objected -- loudly -- and redirected the car to the PATH. After a much more reasonable period of travel, we were exiting a cab at Nate's apartment. Following a quick look inside, he drove us back to Clifton, our last chance at boarding a New Jersey Transit train having come and gone more than an hour ago, probably as I was grinning.

Once home, Casey and I loudly and drunkenly discussed our love for our house, our cats and each other, then took our inebriated asses to bed around 4 a.m. I slept until noon, but somehow, the debilitating hangover I expected would be my payment for the night's activities didn't quite materialize. Sure, my mind was foggy, my head a little achy, my movements gentle and measured, but I didn't feel the need to spend the afternoon on the couch. I got onto the computer, I watched baseball on TV. I also went with the greasy lunch: a large plate of nachos, a little extra cheese for comfort.

I also didn't have the whole afternoon to recover. I was due into work at 6 p.m., plus we had plans to cross the two rivers to Brooklyn for an orthodox Easter dinner at Jen's. Unfortunately, my deadline meant a short visit of a little more than an hour -- just enough time to enjoy the varied selection of meats, to have some pleasant conversations with even more pleasant people and to feel that, in the entire time we were there, Jen barely sat down. But we left after all the food had been presented, and she had already dug into a plate of her own, so I'm sure she spent the rest of the evening enjoying the company and the feast she had prepared.

I tend to be anxious when going to small gatherings at which I only know the couple who invited us -- wondering if I'll be able to carry the conversation or seem interesting enough around people who don't share my overblown interest in Notre Dame or the Mets -- but I didn't have any apprehension before Sunday's party, nor during it. I found myself not wanting to leave, though after Saturday night's events, my energy level was already lowered, so more food and a longer stay on a comfy couch would only have exposed everyone to the yawns and blank stares I had to shake off later at the office.

It's afternoons like that, nights like Saturday, friends like those we got to see this weekend that I should recall more often when I have a night off or an afternoon invite, yet I don't know if I can muster the stamina to leave the house after a few trying days at work. It sure makes it easier to go back to the office with warm smiles and friendly faces etched in my memory to help me look forward to the next open date on my calendar.

Poetry in newsprint, virtually

The sun went down half an hour ago, and there is a nearly perfect stillness in the evening. I stand outside and wonder how such a night is possible, how — in the great cycle of air masses thrusting and obtruding their way across the planet, boiling up from the oceans and scattering over the plains — this small-valley quiet comes to be.

You don't often read such poetry in a newspaper, but Verlyn Klinkenborg's short Op-Ed pieces in The Times are just that, and I try not to miss one.

Thrill in the city

Two people walking on 16th St. near Ninth Ave. ...

WOMAN: I hailed a cab today.

MAN: Good for you.

WOMAN: It was cool.

(Out-of-towners)

Ethan, Michael, Martha and the songs of R.E.M.

I had been in a decided drought when it comes to celebrity spotting. People around me were seeing them like spots of gum on the city sidewalks: Will Ferrell in front of the bank across the street from work. Jonathan Cake (the British spy recently on Chuck) at the gym. Derek Jeter ... 's mom at our office. I recall having heard about more, but the details slip my mind now. I'm sure there were some, though.

It had been so long that I hadn't bothered to look. I wasn't conditioned to it, even though the list of famous faces that have been seen in Chelsea Market alone and spotted by my co-workers include Steve Buscemi, Samantha Bee and Jason Jones, and Molly Shannon (whom I later saw myself on the corner across the street).

But on Wednesday, as Casey and I walked to Company for dinner before the R.E.M. tribute at Carnegie Hall, we zigged and zagged our way from Sixth Ave. and 17th St. to Ninth Ave. and 24th St. As we walked up the west side of Eighth Ave., crossing over 21st St., we passed a man tossing a nerf football as he chatted with a woman on the corner. As we turned to walk down 21st to Ninth, in the back of my mind I had a thought that the voice I'd heard from him was somewhat familiar. That instinct didn't emerge from my subconscience until we were halfway down the block. The man with the nerf football had passed us on the sidewalk. Ahead of us, he paused to talk with a woman and two kids sitting on a stoop. He tossed the football up to one of the boys, who threw it back.

That's when I got a closer look.

"That's Ethan Hawke, isn't it?" I asked Casey.

"Yes, it is," she confirmed.

He continued his stroll toward Ninth Ave. before we overtook him, and we turned to head up to Company as he waited to cross the avenue.

We enjoyed our meal of two gourmet pizzas (we ordered the Popeye and Flambe off the menu, with a crisp, refreshing growler of Kelso from Brooklyn) and were finishing our pints before settling the bill and heading up to Carnegie Hall when Casey went to the restroom. As I idlly looked at the patrons -- we had arrived right around 6 p.m. to avoid the crowd, which had now arrived -- I noticed that a group at the round table in the front had begun to arrive. And I recognized the man in front of me: Michael Kors.

I laughed silently to myself and looked for Casey to return. Before she got back to the table, her eyes met mine and I pointed to Kors. She looked and began to laugh.

"He's stalking us!" she said.

We talked about that sighting in Palm Beach as we settled the tab and the rest of Kors' party walked in the door. Turns out he wasn't the most-recognizable face at the table, because after giving him a hug hello Martha Stewart took the seat to his right, her digital camera on the table. Alas, no blog post came of it, but it's not like we needed Martha's confirmation that we'd just eaten some damn good pizza.

The night only got better, once we got to Carnegie Hall. I'll leave the song-by-song recap to New York Magazine and Casey, who's the R.E.M. completist in the family. (I fill that role for Bruce Springsteen, and yet I had to miss a similar show at Lincoln Center in April 2007 because it fell just after our house closing and we had shit to do so that I didn't want to sacrifice a night. So my personal discovery of Josh Ritter came months later.)

Anyway, I got lucky with the three songs I recorded -- "Hairshirt" by Glen Hansard, "(Don't Go Back to) Rockville" by Jolie Holland and the show closer, "E-bow the Letter." They were among the highlights for me. All the performances were good -- especially Calexico on "Wendell Gee," Apples in Stereo on "South Central Rain" and Guster on "Shaking Through" -- but the one I really wish I'd caught was Ingrid Michaelson covering "Nightswimming" with only an upright bassist and digital-delay pedal for accompaniment. (She did it again the next night at City Winery -- and there's a great venue/concert experience that deserves its own entry.)

I just love it when a night lives up to its expectations from start to finish, especially when I'm exhausted enough to know a night in would've done me good. Yet I never wished that was the case, even as I napped on the train on the ride into the city.

Tasty pizza, cold beer, good music and a pretty girl will do that to you.

[Alas, the videos were removed from YouTube. Carnegie Hall getting all bitchy about its copyright. I don't know if this is the place to mention that the show was a benefit for music education, and 100 percent of the "net proceeds" -- after Carnegie's take, I'm sure -- went to three organizations that benefit underprivileged youth. I guess we can't benefit youth music education through the internet, though.]

Spring is springing

Signs of spring: Scull boats on the Passaic for crew practice; chair-sitting at the AmVets lodge in Lyndhurst; and baseball practice on the new turf fields along the tracks by the old landfills.

I thought I'd dread returning to the city tonight on my one night off in a long stretch of long nights, but I'm excited. Dinner out with the wife, a show at Carnegie Hall. I'll be in bed before 5 a.m. -- probably by 1:30 -- for a change and can have a full day around the house and for errands tomorrow before going back to a vampire's life.

For one night, that's enough. I'll take it.

A white half-birthday

Hibernation day

I got to leave work early last night to get home ahead of the worst of the storm, but I still drove out of a city where the streets were starting to hold the snow. Route 3 had patches where the asphalt wasn't visible and the only lanes I adhered to were the tracks left by the car several dozen yards ahead of me. I drove slowly -- other than in the Lincoln Tunnel below the Hudson, 30 mph was my max -- and laughed at the maniacs who passed me on Route 3 going the speed limit.

The commute took about 50 minutes, which included brushing off the car on Ninth Ave., and the only instance I had where I lost traction was a few inches as I pulled into the driveway. I logged on to check in at work and stayed online for about an hour and a half. Before I went up to bed, I looked out at the car to find it covered again in about two inches of snow, and my tracks across the porch were mere indentations in the white blanket.

The Weather Channel is trying to fancy it up by calling it the Monday Mega-Storm, but I'd prefer a simple, classic designation more along the lines of "The Blizzard of '09" or "The Nor'easter of 2009," those that take me back to the December 1993 nor'easter that closed school from Friday through Monday or the 1995 northeastern blizzard that shut down everything from New York to Boston and kept me at my roommate's house an extra two days and prompted my mom to send a fruit basket the size of Plymouth Rock just because they had to shelter me for two extra days.

So I'm catching up on DVRed TV and photos and fueling my addiction to Mafia Wars on Facebook while I wait out the last of the falling flakes. That, and if I hunker down long enough, one of the two nice neighbors with a snowblower will make his way along our sidewalks, leaving only the deck, the driveway and the front steps for me to shovel.

You gotta know how to play it in suburbia.

Well worth it

It certainly falls into the category of why didn't I think of that before? I got off the PATH at Christopher Street tonight and walked the seven-tenths of a mile up Hudson, rather than staying on for two more stops to 14th and walking the six-tenths along 14th or 15th. Not only was the neighborhood more pleasant, but the pedestrians were fewer and seemed more, well, welcoming. Even the bars I passed but cannot enter were more enticing, though that's no surprise considering two of them are among my favorites: The White Horse and Bayard's. Even the Duane Reade and Rite Aid (though that one's on the other side of Hudson) looked more appealing than the Duane Reade at 14th and 7th that I've entered in the past.

Plus, it occurred to me that it's more economical, time-wise, to get off at Christopher because the walk, while only a tenth of a mile longer, crosses fewer main streets (only the two-way 14th, rather than 14th plus four avenues) and cuts out two stops on the PATH, meaning I'm starting the walk a minute or two sooner.

I swear, this discovery is an epiphany. It's like finding the shorter trade route to India, only there wasn't a "new world" halfway there to trick me into thinking I'd made it.

Reversing the commute, last night I had Car 10 heading home, and I remembered having the number before but couldn't place it. So I checked the notebook to find that he'd driven me home on consecutive nights, the second of which he remembered me and already had the address programmed into the GPS, so I was able to kick back and chill after what I recall being a busy night. He also has an affinity for hip-hop music (and Hip-Hop Weekly, in the seat pocket in front of me) and strong cologne, which is better than some of the smells the drivers, um, give off. And though he hadn't driven me home since April (that I can recall), he remembered the street name -- or looked it up in the computer system, if the drivers have access to that info -- as he was programming the GPS.

Time to head out tonight. It's car 271 though.

I see you walking up 14th Street

I used to commute into New York on NJ Transit by transferring at Hoboken and taking a second train into Penn Station, then the A/C/E subway two stops to 14th Street (though I'd actually get out at 15th Street and walk from 8th to 9th Avenue to get to work). Then I started taking the train one stop past Secaucus, to the terminal in Hoboken and getting on the PATH subway under the Hudson. I'd ride that three stops to 14th Street at 6th Avenue, then walk the three long blocks -- on either 14th or 15th Street, depending on my mood or whether I was stopping for food on the way into the office. The route via Hoboken saves me $1.25 on the NJ Transit ticket and, at first, 25 cents on the subway on account of the difference in MTA and PATH fares. Now that I use a Smartlink card for the discount, the PATH is something like $1.30 per ride, rather than $1.75.




Anyway, a co-worker mentioned last night that when he takes that same PATH line, he likes to get out two stops earlier, at Christopher Street, because the walk up Hudson Street to Chelsea Market at 15th and 9th is a nicer stroll (and it clearly is). But he also felt that the Hudson route was actually shorter than the one from 14th Street.

And that's what made me look up. "I never thought of that," I said, "but you may be right." A quick check with Google Maps' nifty "walking" option showed that the 14th Street stop is the closest of the three (adding 9th Street as well) -- but by only a tenth of a mile. My daily stroll from 14th and 6th to 15th and 9th is six-tenths of a mile, while both the Christopher and 9th Street stops are just seven-tenths away.

That's outstanding. Not only does it give me a more pleasant option for my regular walk, but it opens up new avenues to explore, plus the potential for new dinner options. And, of course, it will provide new photo opportunities for my resolution when I've exhausted everything on my current route, which I may stick with until I've taken all the shots I want to take (like today's). The walk through the Village up Hudson Street or Greenwich Avenue is like a drive in the country compared to the 14th Street strip mall. Even 15th Street, with its rows of stoops and apartment buildings, has a more urban feel than you find in the Village.

The reason it never occured to me that the 14th Street stop might not actually be the hands-down closest is because everything below that long east-west boundary is a jumble to me. It's old Manhattan, where the grid is blown up. (Actually, more accurately, it's where the grid never had a chance to be laid out as Manhattan was settled northward over the decades, converting the farms into city, with the open space allowed for a more ordered system of roads.) Whenever I come out of the subway below 14th, I have to take a moment to orient myself -- if I can. In some spots, it's hopeless, and I take a guess. More often than not, I guess wrong and backtrack. Always an adventure.

Now the adventure will be exploring more closely a new regular route I already know.

Beer me: Zamkowe!

Zamkowe!

From the back label: The Namyslow Brewery is over 600 years old, dating back to 1321. The word Zamkowe means "castle" named after the brewery's 14th century gothic castle. To this day, Zamkowe is known as the "Beer of Knights."

There wasn't anything special in the flavor of this beer, but it was rather light and very refreshing. It'll be a great beer for a summer evening on the back patio.

It was well-earned today, though. This was the fourth day of significant progress on the basement as I push to have it finished by 6 p.m. Sunday, when our guests arrive for the Super Bowl. We expect to be able to fit everyone in the living room, where the HD TV is, but I'd planned to have the basement ready in case we needed it, and now that we're so close, there's no reason to slow down.

I bit the bullet and hired an electrician to finish the lighting. My uncle had been helping, but after a slip on the ice on Christmas Eve, he's been laid up with back trouble, so we decided to pay the money and get the wiring finished. The guy I hired even cleaned it up a little, installing a switch near the entrance of the laundry area to control the main light there. Until now, that switch had been ... one floor above, in the kitchen. We'll never know exactly why. He also changed the bulb in the utility closet into a pull-chain socket powered independently from the switch that now controls the lights mounted on the walls. Previously, that light was controlled by the switch -- the switch which turned on an outlet in the middle wall between the finished area and the laundry room, the outlet that had an extension cord plugged into it that then ran through the ceiling and somehow controlled the utility closet light and two lamps mounted on the opposite wall that were plugged into another outlet in the utility closet. It's a wonder the previous owners didn't burn this place down with that setup. (Not to mention their decorating motif of fake brick and shingles -- brick on the top half of half the wall space, shingles on the lower half, with a two-inch shelf in between. Two small sections of shingles remain, on a section of ceiling that drops down to allow pipes to run through. They're going to be covered with license plates anyway, so there was no need to go through with the headache of prying them off and putting paneling up.)

With that done, my dad's been up every day this week to finish with the walls. Monday, we put up the last of the sheetrock and cut some paneling. Tuesday and Wednesday, we measured and cut the last pieces of paneling, needing both days because of a particularly tricky section involving an inlaid bookshelf. I had to work both Monday and Tuesday nights, so our work time was limited those days. Today, we glued and nailed in the last sections we'd cut on the previous days and cut one final outlet hole, even devising a way to get the outlet to sit more flush and even with the paneling, instead of being recessed as it originally would have been.

I'd hoped to prime everything by tonight, but the preparations took longer than expected, so I managed to lay the edging tape and spackle the areas that needed it. Tomorrow morning, we'll prime it -- we have to do the whole thing because the sections that were already paneled are in need of new paint, and not just because they're a sea green color. They're grungy. Hopefully by the afternoon, we can get a coat of paint on before the Devils game, and I'll have Saturday for the second coat of paint. That evening, the couches can go into position and the TV can be set up and I'll have my man cave.

Outside the sunshine is skating around on the asphalt

I can't say I ever read much of John Updike's work, but I would often pause if I came across his name somewhere. For some reason, I sort of grouped him with William Faulkner and Jack London in a line of noted American authors whose work I was not that familiar with. (As opposed to someone like John Steinbeck or Ernest Hemingway, with whom Updike might be more similar, but I'm more familiar with their work.)

So maybe all I really know about Updike is that he continued to write for The New Yorker all these years, and I'd see his byline and read the articles -- and the occasional work of fiction -- and appreciate that I had access to fresh material from one of America's literary icons. But then last week, as I read various reviews of Bruce Springsteen's new album, a few noted the ties between Updike's 1961 short story "A&P" and Springsteen's third track, "Queen of the Supermarket."

To me, the comparison ends with the narrators watching -- crushing on, as the kids might say -- a girl in the supermarket, though Updike's is from the point of view of the cashier, while Springsteen's is a customer's. Updike's story is quite good. Springsteen's song is crap. I just can't get behind it. Maybe he felt the need to write a song -- an officially recognized and released song, at least -- that begins with the letter Q.

While it's sad that Updike's time on earth has come to an end, it's interesting that it came on the day Springsteen's album was released, even if it had been available on NPR for a week. As he left this world, Updike was in the news again for something he wrote nearly 50 years ago.

And 50 years ago, he wrote one particularly gorgeous line, a series of actions as the story reaches its climax and a line that ends with nine wonderfully descriptive words:

One advantage to this scene taking place in summer, I can follow this up with a clean exit, there's no fumbling around getting your coat and galoshes, I just saunter into the electric eye in my white shirt that my mother ironed the night before, and the door heaves itself open, and outside the sunshine is skating around on the asphalt.

Rest in peace, John Updike.

The one nice driver in northern New Jersey (besides me)

From the You Don't See That Everyday Department:

A woman tried to pull around me at a stop sign, though we were both going straight. I did not have my turn signal on and was not pointed in any way that would indicate I was turning right rather than going straight. I moved first, so she remained behind me. Once in the parking lot at the train station, I moved slowly, trying to determine whether I would go right or left in search of a parking space in the small lot closest to the station. She tried to pass on the left just as I chose to go that direction. I was lucky in that I thought to look for her first. I waved her past, rolling my eyes.

I managed to park first and was walking past her car as she was maneuvering into her spot. After she purchased her fare and I was getting my iPod out, she came up to me ... to apologize.

"I'm not usually that crazy," she said. "I didn't know how much time I had before the train came and I had to buy my ticket."

She was nice about it, and I forgave her.

Good thing I didn't go off on her, which was my first thought.

First listen of 'Working on a Dream'

Listened to Springsteen's new album streamed at NPR, and here are my initial thoughts...

1.) "Outlaw Pete." Love the strings in the beginning as the song builds, but it gets weak when Bruce's voice is isolated -- and cracks. When it picks up, it's a salvageable opening track.

2. "My Lucky Day." I love the tempo. Was just OK with this on first listen, when the video was posted online. I think it will grow on me.

3. "Working on a Dream." NBC did a terrible job of "premiering" this song during halftime of a Sunday Night Football game. The network spliced together bits and pieces to play over football highlights, and it was horrible. That said, even upon hearing the full version, it may be one of the worst title tracks in the Springsteen catalog (up against "Human Touch" and "Lucky Town"). I'm fine with the verses, but the choruses grate on me a bit.

4. "Queen of the Supermarket." The fourth track? Really? Something like this is probably best left for a hidden "bonus" track. "I'm in love with the queen of the supermarket"? Kind of ridiculous. If he plays this on tour, it'll be the biggest rush to the bathroom of any song.

5. "What Love Can Do." A pretty good recovery after "Supermarket." Upbeat, layered vocals, some guitar licks that stand out, a short solo ... and some train imagery. Bruce goes back to his reliable building blocks.

6. "This Life." Definitely feels like a cousin of Magic, which is what this album essentially is. Several tracks stand apart from that sound, but this one is very similar to "Girls in Their Summer Clothes."

7. "Good Eye." The bullet microphone is back. It must be on a lighter setting than when he used it on his solo tour following Devils & Dust or "A Night with the Jersey Devil" last Halloween, because it's not as annoying. This is a bit of a honky-tonk rocker.

8. "Tomorrow Never Knows." Easily my favorite track. I slid the bar back to hear it again. A folksy, toe-tapping tune that brings to mind several other artists: Arlo or Woody Guthrie, Jakob Dylan, even the railroad-like guitar work of Johnny Cash. Could have come off of The Seeger Sessions.

9. "Life Itself." Again, echoes of Magic. Another one about which I had doubts when hearing online a few weeks ago. But I think it, too, will grow on me.

10. "Kingdom of Days." Meh. After the first listen, can't tell if I hate it or could come to like it. One thought: On the "Walk away, walk away, walk away" refrain, I actually could see young white teens singing along, heads bobbing back and forth, eyes closed, hands held high, in one of those "Songs 4 Worship" commercials. That's probably not good.

11. "Surprise, Surprise." I can live with this one. It's peppy and upbeat, with a guitar solo in the middle. No real -- ahem -- surprises.

12. "The Last Carnival." Ending -- at least before the bonus track that we've all heard already -- with a quiet, slow number. A bit ethereal, with shades of Toad the Wet Sprocket (to me). This one, of course, is Bruce's elegy to departed bandmate Dan Federici.

13. "The Wrestler." Right behind "Tomorrow Never Knows" for favorite status, and I haven't even seen the movie yet. The emotion of the words and music fit the images in the trailer so well, just as they did in the video for "Streets of Philadelphia," so it's no wonder this song won the Golden Globe. I expect an Oscar nomination on Thursday and a likely win in February.

My issues with this album may stem from its release so soon after Magic, which I felt was his best work since Born in the U.S.A. That album sat so well with me that this one had a lot to live up to before I ever pressed -- er, clicked -- play. We'll see how it sounds when I can take it with me -- listening in the car, on a run or on the way to work. It will almost assuredly sit differently with me when I'm not tied to my computer to hear it.

The events of Monday evening, January 12

5:21 p.m.
We've stopped. This isn't particularly unusual for my commute to work. As our train heads east across the Meadowlands, we sometimes have to wait just before crossing a bridge over the Hackensack River because the span only contains one set of tracks. Yet this time, there's an announcement: We're being held at a stop signal. I'm literally stuck somewhere in the swamps of Jersey, on a New Jersey Transit train held near the western spur of the Turnpike because of frozen switches up ahead near Secaucus. Turns out it was the failure of backup batteries.

5:23 p.m.
The first text message: "Due to Switch Problems, trains on the Main/Bergen, Pascack Valley, and Port Jervis Lines are operating 10 to 15 minutes late." We haven't even been delayed five minutes, so there's really nothing to be alarmed about.

5:25 p.m.
The same text message hits my cell phone. OK, so whoever is in charge of the mobile alerts tonight didn't send it out to all subscribers at first.

5:36 p.m.
Another text alert, only this time the delays are 20 to 30 minutes. I log onto e-mail from my phone to let my co-workers know I'm running late.

5:37 p.m.
The 20-to-30-minute delay text alert, repeated.

6 p.m.
I should be at work right now. It's been 40 minutes, with no indication of when we'll move. Outside the windows is nothing but darkness pierced only by the headlights of the cars on the elevated spur just ahead of us. In a way, it's as if they're hover cars from the future, scooting overhead like in The Jetsons.

6:02 p.m.
An update, via short messaging service: trains "are operating 30 to 45 minutes late." The engineer has come out of the cab and is chatting with passengers and conductors in the car. She mentions the train ahead of us, the problem with the switches and that the trains on lines heading to and from Penn Station New York are running smoothly, with no delays.

6:05 p.m.
I decide that once we reach Secaucus, I'll transfer there. I figure this delay has backed up trains into and out of Hoboken, and once we get over the bridge and into Secaucus, there's no guarantee we'll arrive in Hoboken 10 minutes later, as we normally would. From Secaucus, I'll get to Penn Station and take the subway to work and walk a block between avenues, rather than taking PATH from Hoboken and walking four blocks between avenues. I've also been hungry since about 5:22, with nothing to munch on in my bag, so I'd like to grab something to take up to the office right away.

6:07 p.m.
Well, so much for Plan B. A new alert from NJ Transit: "Northeast Corridor and North Jersey Coast Line service temporarily suspended at Linden due to trespasser fatality." Fabulous.

6:14 p.m.
The one hits close to home. "Main-Bergen County Line train #1116 the 3:58pm from Suffern up to 80 min. delay near Secaucus Junction due to Signal problem." At first, I think that's my train, but I later realize it's the one that stopped in Clifton at 4:34 p.m and should have arrived in Hoboken at 5:07. I'm on the 5:04 out of Clifton, which should've reached the terminal at 5:37.

6:15 p.m.
Westbound service at Linden has been restored, but that doesn't help me, since I will be going eastbound from Secaucus -- if I ever get there.

6:17 p.m.
Just to rub it in, NJ Transit issues another alert saying that service remains suspended at Linden.

6:35 p.m.
Eastbound service has been restored at Linden, with 20-to-30-minute delays. I decide to switch at Secaucus.

6:40 p.m.
The latest alert says that service on the Main, Bergen, Pascack Valley and Port Jervis lines is subject to 30-minute delays in both directions because of earlier switch problems. That's cool, but our delay is now up to 80 minutes.

Amazingly, the time flies as I read The New Yorker and listen to my iPod. I called the office to check in at 6:15, and immediately after hanging up, a train passed us going the other way. Clearly, the problem had been fixed. Yet four more have come by in the opposite direction, and we've yet to move. We were one of the first eastbound trains stuck by this delay. I'm in the first car, and ahead of us, across the bridge (which has just one set of tracks, hence the bottleneck -- trains have to wait for any moving in the opposite direction to pass before they can cross the river), we could see a westbound train also waiting out the repairs.

6:44 p.m.
Finally, we move. Once we cross the bridge, we pause again for several minutes as they sort out the shuffling of the trains into Secaucus.

6:56 p.m.
Secaucus, finally. I step off the train onto the platform and feel liberated. There was nothing that could be done during our hiatus in the swamp. Had we been just inside our outside of Secaucus, there's always the thought that they may find a way to let us off and walk to the station, where we can take alternate routes. But out among the reeds, with the single-track bridge still in front of us, not a chance. I had a bottle of water with me (which I never felt compelled to use) and was in the passenger car with the restroom, but that proved an unnecessary luxury for me as well, so I was never in any dire straits.

7:01 p.m.
I walk along the platform of Track 2, heading down to the spot I like to stand while waiting for the train. Once there, I watch two other NJ Transit trains speed through the station without stopping. I realize that these are trains that aren't scheduled to stop and they can't make any concessions, lest the schedules get disrupted even more, but I still flip off the first silver blur that whooshes by.

7:22 p.m.
At last, a train stops in Secaucus.

7:32 p.m.
Arrival at Penn Station. I choose to take the A one stop to 14th Street rather than the C or E two stops. While waiting, I miss an E. Wrong choice. Oh well. At this point, what does it matter?

7:45 p.m.
Finally, my long commuting nightmare is over. I emerge from the subway on 15th Street, grab some food, and head up to the office. Thankfully, I was No. 2 in the hierarchy tonight, not No. 1, and it turned out to be a relatively quiet night. I missed most of the first half of the Notre Dame-Louisville game, though.

Stupid train tracks.

I'm definitely nauseated

A woman talks loudly on her cell phone as she rides the train toward Hoboken. It's loud enough for me to hear as I drift in and out of sleep -- and listen to my iPod.

"MAYBE BECAUSE YOU THINK YOU'RE PREGNANT YOUR BODY IS ACTING LIKE YOU ARE. YOU THINK YOU'RE PREGNANT, SO THAT'S WHY YOUR NAUSEOUS."

Or maybe she's nauseated because her friend is screaming personal details across a rush-hour-crowded New Jersey Transit passenger car.

Beer me: Warka

One of the liquor stores in town includes a varied selection of Polish beers and spirits among its selection, and when I stopped in to restock the fridge the other day, I decided to start a tasting project. From now on, whenever I go there to fill up, I'm going to choose a bottle of one of the Polish brews to try. I'll keep notes on each so that I know which ones are worth another purchase, including a sixer, where applicable.

First up: Warka. I'm not going to give a beer snob review -- not that I don't appreciate those, but if I'm not taking notes after the first couple of sips, I'm not going to be in any condition to organize my thoughts like that. And I'm not. While I agree in general with the reviews posted there -- quite carbonated, more malty than hoppy, minimal aftertaste -- my general impression was that I don't hate it, but it doesn't stand out to me. Which is fine. It's a decent, refreshing lager that I would buy again. There was nothing to it that would scare me away from a future purchase.

Na zdrowie.

When winter kicks your ass

Not anyone's idea of a good time: The gyro man across the street from my office was working under the hood of his cart last night in a cold, occasionally driving rain. At 2 in the morning. I noticed it only as I got into the car to head home and empathized with him. My thoughts shifted when I noticed the "miles remaining" reading on his dashboard read just 45 -- bet he was glad to be heading to New Jersey.

Winter rain sucks. I got home and stepped out of the car in front of the house, putting my foot down on the curb. And I almost bit it. My right foot slid a few inches on the slick coating of ice on the cement before I caught myself. I turned carefully and closed the door, then heard the crunch of the frozen grass as I gingerly walked over the sidewalk, up the steps and through the gate to our patio.

I've noticed that the gate tends to swing open in heavy winds. The shaking from the gusts must shake the two sides of the gate enough that the loose wooden latch no longer rests on the ledge that keeps it in place, then rotates down into an unsecure position, which allows the gate to swing open. But when it's really cold, the latch seems to tighten and not move so easily. And last night, it was frozen in place. When I touched the top of it to pull it open and enter, I felt the soft, smooth, cold cover of a thin sheet of ice.

I hoped the freezing rain would produce a crystalized wonderland in the morning, but temperatures rose just enough to make Wednesday nothing but cold and wet. The photographic opportunities of a frozen landscape would've been stellar, but there was nothing. So when I left for work, it was a miserable walk to the train. Snow can be a pain in the ass (or back, with the shoveling), but I'd still prefer it to a steady, all-day, sometimes driving rain that soaks you through and stays with you long after you've found cover (and even heat), because the cold wind ensures that the sodden feeling reaches down to the bone.