Schwinn to Win

A lot has happened in terms of bloggables lately, and I guarantee that I won’t cover all of them. But I will try to touch them all, at lease in brief.

In early May, I bought a bicycle. It was a $100 Craigslist job that had brakes that worked (kind of) and wheels that only slightly wobbled. It is a Schwinn Continental road bike that is the beautiful burnt umber ubiquitous in the ‘70s, complete with chrome hardware and lugged joints. It even has a steel kickstand lugged into the frame. In sum, it’s a tank of a bike.

My plan was to ride the bike to work. That, I figured, would make the city more Rexburg-y, which in this context I am referring to as a good thing. It would free me up to softly whistle to myself as I rode, liberating me from the social pressure on the subway to not whistle. I could, much in Rexburg style, ring my bell and wave at people on the sidewalk as they walked jealous of my freedom. I could take Sunday afternoon rides through the alfalfa fields and past the rope swing over the irrigation canals full of crystal clear, clearly potable water. It would transform my world, that tank of a bike.

Once I bought the bike, I knew that, regardless of my naïve Rexburg-y attitude, I should purchase a lock. Before I proceed, I must point out that during my 3 years at BYU-Idaho, I locked my bike once. This was during an overnight trip to Sun Valley I was taking for the Steinbeck festival in Sun Valley, and I thought to myself, “What the heck. Might as well throw this thing on here.” Upon my return, my bike was gone. It seemed strange to me.

It turns out that the bike was stolen by some local hooligans (referred to by the Rexburg police as "Mexicans") and later thrown into a half-empty canal when they were pursued by the authorities. I was able to recover the bike, and, as it turns out, I did not use the lock properly. I locked the frame to the front wheel, but not to the bike rack itself. A minor oversight, I assure you.

Anyways, I go to the local bike shop here in NY and ask what kind of lock they recommend. Their response: “We don’t recommend any of them.” Interesting response, right?

“I see. Then what should I do?”

“Just don’t lock your bike up, ever. If you do, it will get stolen, we guarantee it.”

“Oh, I see. What about that big one there, with the inch-thick chain that weighs 18 pounds.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t work. You see, a hacksaw right here and a hydraulic car jack there … just like that your bike’s gone.”

“So if I can’t park my bike inside …”

“Just don’t ride it. You’ll be throwing it out the window.”

I turned around and walked out, a bit dejected and feeling like a failure. I was a victim of the worst salesmanship of all time. It seems like a counterproductive business model for a bike shop. Not only did they not sell me a lock (which can run up to $80), but they did not give themselves the opportunity to sell me a new bike once mine was stolen.

Eventually, I went to a place closer to my apartment out in Queens where no one speaks fluent English. Even if they wanted to discourage me from buying a lock they couldn’t. (This is just an example of how complicated the path of least resistance can be.) I then had everything that I needed, happiness just moments away.

A quick anatomy of my commute. From Sunnyside to Long Island City, a piece of cake. There is a marked bike path on Skillman Avenue until you hit Queensboro Bridge. The bridge has a bike/pedestrian path seperated from traffic by a cement barrier, so the level of danger is very low. I mean, I get dripped on (I find it best not to ask what is dripping, as a general New York rule) and have to avoid bums driving shopping carts occasionally, but nothing to complain about.

However, once across the bridge, things get a little more complicated for a cyclist. You then hit midtown Manhattan. This is a place where lane markers are only gentle recommendations and where blinkers only indicate that you are from out of town. As I came off the bridge and ventured into traffic I felt the same as I felt wandering into Mrs. Webster's Kindergarten class 18 years ago. Where to go, what to do, TBD.

The first few days I just parked my bike on a corner and waited for a fellow cyclist who looked like he or she knew how to ride without riding under a bus. I would then try to keep up, learning the unwritten rules of riding in NY.

And so it went until I soon became more comfortable and knew where the danger zones were. I soon realized that I needed to be in the right-most lane at 58th Street or I would be toppled by the traffic turning left onto the bridge. And that pedestrians are equally as vocal in their dissaproval as cab drivers. I learned that two-lane roads are scarier than one-lane roads, especially when you are riding down the double yellow. I also learned that one-lane roads are scary when you're going the wrong way down them.

I am happy to say that in almost 3 months of parking my bike at Bryant Park, it has not been stolen. And I am also happy to say that since I started riding to work, I have lost more than 20 pounds. I attribute 60% of that weight to excercise and 40% to the anxiety of 19 blocks' worth of vindictive motorists and pedestrians with an inordinate sense of entitlement.

The True NY State of Mind

This post is long overdue, but it is about something that burns every time I think about it. I am generally an ace at pretending that things that hurt don't ever phase me. It is part of what classifies me as a bona fide badass. (Poll: Can I be a badass and still use words like bona fide?) So for the most part, I like to bring up painful topics before someone else does, just to prove that I have moved on, much as you would expect from a badass. You know, like, "You remember how Boise State lost to East Carolina in the Hawaii Bowl? Yeah, I don't even care about that."

Well, this is different. I get so frustrated and so bitter that I have just trapped it inside, which is the healthy way to deal with problems, as I understand it. Anyways, I take us back to May 10. I have a few friends at church who wanted to go to a Mets game. That is fine, of course, but they aren't what you would call true baseball fans. As a matter of fact, they had never been to a baseball game and were in it for the baseball experience. The problem this created were 1) the Mets and 2) the weather.

The Mets have not been the creme de la creme of baseball teams lately (read "for the last two decades"). And unless you can really respect fielding errors and drunken fans, you will have a hard time getting the true baseball experience out of the Mets. As for the weather, it was raining.

In an unfortunate lapse of judgment, we had decided that I would purchase the tickets and the others would pay me back at the game. In total, I purchased 6 tickets, one for me and one for the five others who agreed to go with me. Come the day of the game, the other five decided they did not want to go, for various reasons (mainly those listed above). This left me with 5 more tickets than I needed and five fewer friends than I thought I had.

It was a gametime development, so I couldn’t sell the tickets on Craigslist. But it seemed like such a waste to let the tickets go to waste. I figured that I could give the tickets away to whoever needed them, but the problem was finding people who would actually take them. I would say that 95% of people coming off the subway already had tickets, so it would be so inefficient to stand around trying to find the 5% interested.

I figured that the only place where 100% of the people passing through are actually looking for tickets would be the ticket line. I know that selling tickets is illegal on the Shea Stadium premises, but I figured that giving tickets away would not hurt anyone. Just doing my nice deed for the day, and who would possibly want to punish me for that?

Four people approached the ticket booth, I told them I had tickets I was giving away. Then a short fat man wearing a Mets cap and bug-eye sunglasses came over. “See those cameras over there? The NYPD now has evidence of you attempting to sell tickets on Shea Stadium property.”

“But I was just trying to give the tickets away, and …”

“Sir, just shut up and listen to me. You don’t have to be difficult about this. Do you want me to call in the authorities?”

“Are you serious? I was just giving these away …”

“OK, because you are trying to give them away, I already know that you are doing something wrong.”

Eventually I walked away and threw the tickets in the trash. “Because you are giving them away, I know you are doing something wrong.” That made me so mad. It was one of those New York moments where the city is so well-trained to distrust any unselfish act. If there was ever a moment where I wish I could have roundhouse kicked anyone or anything, it was that moment right there, where I wish I could have roundhouse kicked those bug-eye glasses right off his face.

Because you are being nice, I know you are doing something wrong. What belligerent arrogance. There is no other attitude that will destroy a society more quickly or more viciously, but probably the one phrase that best sums up the New York state of mind.

Put that on a t-shirt.

Malcom X Blvd.

I live in Sunnyside on Bliss St. How could life get any better? I admit, it may be a somewhat deceiving name for a blue-collar street in a blue-collar neighborhood in Queens (in 7-line Queens, nonetheless), but it is safe and relatively clean. Clean by outer-borough New York standards at least. I cannot think of a time in which I felt in any significant danger. Well, other than the one isolated road rage-turned fist fist fight-turned 7-iron assault incident, which was technically in Woodside, not Sunnyside.





I live here for various reasons. I work just a few steps from the Times Square stop, and that is the terminal destination of the 7 train. It gives me a 25-minute door-to-door commute, which is better than anything you'll find outside of Hell's Kitchen. So one reason i live here is the commute. The second reason is that it is about 10 minutes from Shea Stadium and Arthur Ashe tennis complex. I can literally leave my apartment as the Met's pregame show starts and make it to the stadium for the first pitch if I wanted. And since Shea has $5 seats in the nosebleeds from time to time, it is hard to pass up. I love me some baseball.





I also live here because the rent is cheap compared to anything that you'll find in Manhattan. That is to say cheap compared to anything not on the Lower East Side or in Harlem/SpaHa. About a month ago I was a signature away from moving in with a friend in a reasonably-priced apartment on 111th, just north of Central Park, just on the Harlem of the Upper West Side/Harlem border. I guess that I regretted it a bit over the past month since there are benefits to actually living in the City: the NY, NY address, easier access to the rest of the city, (for us young single adults) membership in a YSA ward, etc. But then I went and visited that same would-be apartment this week. Never again (never) will I consider moving to Harlem. In comparison, Bliss St. in Sunnyside lives up to its name.





I took the 7 to the 2, where I got off and started walking up the stairs. In the break between stairwells I came across a dilapidated tile mosaic with broken excerpts from a quote. The legible part read, "We are all brothers and sisters ..." before the tiles became too broken and scattered to read. Plus, it's not good manners to stop in the middle of a staircase.



When I came out of the staircase, I was confronted (as a manner of speaking) by a disheveled man selling a Velcro wallet. After having living in NY for as long as I have now, I consider myself somewhat of an expert at coldly ignoring beggars/salesmen. Or so I thought. When he asked me, I shook my head without making direct eye contact and continued walking. "Sir, excuse me. Sir?" Persistent little bugger, he was. Then I made eye contact. Once I did that, it was all over. After all, he wasn't going to buy rugs or booze with the money (his words, not mine), and he had just lost his job. He just needed money for a bit to eat and (again, his words not mine) I do have a good heart. So yes, I gave him a dollar. Damn my good heart.

The first street intersection that I came across was Central Park North and Malcom X Blvd. All I could think to myself was, "I don't think I'm in Sunnyside anymore..." I can't explain how or why it felt different, it just did. For some reason I felt like someone was going to pull a prank on me. Like they were going to give me a wedgie or "Got your nose!" me. I made my way to my friend's apartment. It's a fairly nice place, but about the same as what I have in Sunnyside, only a few hundred dollars more. Again, what you might expect from anywhere in Manhattan.

That night I went out to grab a bite to eat because I often get hungry. I'm funny that way. I went to this pizza and chicken joint that looked like a place where good fast food went to die. Inch-thick Plexiglas separated the customer from the staff, with a hole cut out through which you could fit any various-shaped food containers, but probably not large enough for a man to fit through if he had the occasion to. As I contemplated my order (and the choices were many) a man who smelled of hard liquor and a hard life asked for something to eat. Just a slice of pizza, that's all. Again, I looked him in the eye. I'll learn better some time.

As he waited for his slice of pizza to be heated up, he and I shared some casual conversation.

"You know, we like you people in Harlem."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, we want more of you whites here. You respect our women, and we respect yours." For a moment I felt like we were having some sort of cowboy-Indian barter. I believe that they used women as currency.

"Gee, thanks!'

"Lots of good white people out there. I even like Obama." Obama ... is he white? I thought it best not to ask.

"Obama, good guy. He's a democrat, you know ..."

"I don't like that Hillary. My man Obama, he's about equality and change. Hillary's all about asses. (As he said that, he put his hands where his ass might be if he were Hillary, apparently.) Who do you vote for."

"Me? Well, I don't generally share my particular political persuasions in such an informal forum." A slight pause, him looking me in the eyes.

"You're a good person. And I can tell in your eyes that you have a good woman. You do, don't you? And when you have a baby, I can tell. It's going to be a beautiful baby. I can tell that in your eyes." I wish that I had a pen and paper at the time. I wanted to put it in my scriptures as an amendment to my patriarchal blessing.

What an interesting place for so many people to live, Harlem.

Gesundheit

Cont'd from previous post ...

For the scores upon scores of friends (read Purple Petra) who read this, some of y'all may have heard this story before. It is something that Mark and I have told after every reference to New York over the past year, which is quite a few times considering I started at least two out of three sentences with "When I was on my internship in New York last semester ..." to try to impress girls at school. This story admittedly will lose a lot of its effect because Mark can't contribute with his tactful reenactment. And because we can't hand the baton to each other using subtle verbal cues such as "You'd never guess what happened next!" and "And then when I thought it couldn't get worse" etc.

Mark was in town visiting me during my stint as a NY intern and we were on our way back from a thumpin' (or bumpin' or jumpin', whatever the cool way to say it is) Mormon party at a yet-to-be flipped 5-story townhouse. For those of you who don't know, Mormon parties are much like regular parties, only people act drunk as opposed to getting drunk. And instead of having sex we wink at each other. Anyways, we are on our way back and we find ourselves in the tunnel between Port Authority Bus Terminal and the Times Square stop. Those familiar with the matter say that we were right next to the vendors selling "You're going to hell, sinners!" signs in 45 different languages. Again, a somewhat late night (by Mormon standards, of course) and a moderate walk ahead of us.

As we were walking, a man who appeared to be looking for something better in life (i.e. a shower, shoes with soles on them, perhaps a home, more vodka) was walking towards us. He stopped, looked contemplative. Now, this was not going to be the first time that I had been asked for money, and, being the philanthropist that I was (not am), I often obliged (not oblige). I began to feel through my pockets for change or scraps of food when he deliberately brought a finger to one side of his nose, wound up, and blew out a (this is where Mark would come in handy, not only for visual support but also for adjectiving) snot rocket. But all in slow motion.

I spare many details here because they are both nauseating and insufficient to describe the scene, but I give you a few: grey, viscous, 5' 7", remarkable. It was perhaps my first true MTA moments, the kind you can't forget. The evangelical signs, the transcient suddenly realizing he left his kerchief in his other jacket, the woman shielding her son and gasping "Oh come on!", all came together and made a story worth telling. Not like the story, "You know ... that one kid who rides a bike with baskets."

Next time I'll take a picture.

Another hundred people (Sondheim reference, FYI)

So the best part about living in a big city is mass transit. Serious. When I was back in school (way, way back seven months), I rode a bike everywhere. It was a yellow-and-black Raleigh Retroglide with whitewall tires, fenders, paperboy baskets on the rear, headlights, tail lights, a bell, brakes, the whole works. (Sometimes I avoid blogging about my life because as I read back through the post I want to beat myself up. This is one of those times. The bike was a lot cooler than it sounds, I swear.)

That bike (along with my feigned casual yet charming disregard for intrapersonal relationships) defined me as a person. I took pride in having pedaled my way across campus every day of the Winter Semester '06, even on one morning that was rumored to have dropped to -40 with wind chill. Even when I reasonably had enough money to buy a car and enough roommates with cars to get a ride. Even then, I rode my bike to school, ringing my bell when I felt the urge, no helmet, no worries, no rules. (Well, I was pulled over once by a loyal member of the Rexburg police force, but only received a warning. I was clocked going 18 in a 5 zone. Lucky I didn't get my library card revoked.) I rode my bike not because I loved the environment or because I wanted to stay in shape. I rode that bike because I was the only one who would.

Fast forward seven months, and that bike is sitting in my parents' garage. I now ride to work through a system of tunnels that millions of other people also ride through. There is nothing that sets me apart, nothing unique. Some days I sit, others I stand. I usually try to enter through the middle door on the second-to-last car at the 46th Street stop so that I get off directly in front of the escalator at Times Square. Again, nothing unique. But the hours that I spend in those musty tunnels wearing a badge that mutters "Nobody Special" tell the most interesting stories of the last seven months.

The excitement I call my life

So today I realized that the person in my life with whom I have shared the most intimate moments in the last 7 months is the Mexican woman who works in the laundromat. I don't know her name or what her situation in life is, but I do know that I have folded my underwear in front of her. That's something that I have done in front of a select few people in my life. My mom, my missionary companions, peeping toms as the case may be. It's an exclusive bunch.

We are not so intimate that I let her actually fold my laundry, but she's seen me do it. If there is a more accurate measure of intimacy, I don't know what it is. We are so close that I saw her in the street walking her dog once. Kind of awkward to meet her out of context, of course, half expecting her to ask me about my underwear.

I am afraid that she will some day confront me about overloading the washers (I try to get my money's worth at $2.50 a pop) or about putting my wool blend pants in the dryer. Or the fact that I put my detergent in at the beginning of the cycle as opposed to waiting after the prewash just because I don't want to wait around. Or about occasionally mixing my lights and darks/reds and whites etc. You know, all the classic laundry faux pas. I'm sure she would if she could speak English or if I could speak Mexican.

My dream is to some day be more intimate with a woman than I am with my stocky Mexican laundry mat attendant. Preferably someone who speaks the same language as I do.

Living Large

So my roommate and I are getting along great. No major arguments, no large grease fires, no larceny to speak of. We are both considerate of each others' personal space and beliefs, level of cleanliness, etc. I really have no room to complain, but those who know me know me better than that.

My rommate is a nice young woman, 22 years old from South Carolina. It goes without saying coming from the home/mission/BYU-Idaho background that graces my past 23 years that this is the first member of the opposite sex that I have lived with. (Of course my mom and sister don't count. Don't be silly.) "Interesting" perhaps explains it best, with "educational" and "experimental" close behind.

She's a very nice girl, and not necessarily unattractive. I mean, I am in no risk of throwing away a shot at eternal salvation or anything, but she is datable by most standards. But let me tell you a couple things about the totally platonic state of cohabitation in which I have found myself. A couple of observations, not complaints. No, no complaining here.

I am happy that I have had this opportunity to live with a woman before being married to one. Some of the things that would have shocked me during the first few months of living with my wife have now surfaced, which will take a few surprises away from the adventure called matrimony. And believe me, the last thing that I want in marriage are surprises, except for good ones like new sets of golf clubs and power drills for my birthday/anniversary.

For example, you and I know both know why God invented Saturdays: college football. It's a special day where we can get all of the sports out of our systems so that we are ready for Sunday. Well apparently this memo is just attached to our Y chromosones, boys. Let me tell you what has been broadcast on the new Samsung LCD television and HD cable box (both of which I bought specifically to watch college football, mind you) over the bast two saturday afternoons. Vanity Fair (shoot me now, I beg of you), Working Woman, several excruciating seasons of Sex in the City and Friends, Miss Congeniality (I will let that one pass because Sandra Bullock is my future bride), and Must Love Dogs. That's not right. It just ain't.

So instead of watching football, I thought I could at least vaccuum my room. But our vaccuum just doesn't work like the commercials have told me it should. Its little motor whirs away, but it absolutely sucks at sucking like it should. I flip it over to make sure there is nothing stuck in the unercarriage (such as a Snickers wrapper, stray kitten, etc.). All that I found was hair. Miles of hair, all wrapped up in the vaccuum that just wanted to get its job done. So much hair that the brushes on the plastic roll were not even visible. And people don't buy dogs because they shed. You don't want hair all over the place, get a dog and don't get married (or don't move in with a woman).

And the bathroom, boys, don't even get me started. My rooommate dies her hair red, and although I am not sure how the process works exactly, one step (apparently) also involves dying the grout in the shower the same color red. And when I walk in after she has applied makeup, every exposed surface (mirror, sink, toilet seat, tile floor, toothbrush, etc.) has a light dusting of that powdery stuff. You know, the stuff inside those plastic clams that women always carry in their purses. And I never feel totally at home with my pants down when I can see brushes and combs and curling irons peeking over the edge of the shelf above me.

In the end, what I have in a female roommate are all of the caveats of marriage with none of the benefits. You know, I still have to cook my own meals and my Friday nights are still lonely. For all intents and purposes, all I want back is Mark, Dan and Kyle, who didn't mind when I left the seat up.

A Bigger Pond

So I am now back in NYC, back from Rexburg and the rows of alfalfa on Sunday afternoons. I found an apartment in a part fo Queens called Sunnyside, which sounds like such a lovely place. I say it doesn't matter if it is or not, with a name like Sunnyside. I have started work, which means that I go to a place every day where everyone else is better than me at what they do and I only have the right to smile sheepishly and say "Yes'm." So I sit in a cozy cubicle with three others, labeled as the new guy, which will be my title until I stop enjoying gazing at the flashing lights and impatient lines of taxis in Times Square.

It's life now, I guess. It's not the all-inclusive pleasantries of school or a mission. My life is comprised of work and, well, life, I guess. It now comes down to how I will fill that ambiguous void, those hours of the day where I am not allowed to work. So far, it has been coming home and watching Barry Bonds and Alex Rodriguez swing too hard at inside sinkers and fly out to shallow right. But soon they will pass their landmark homerun marks and I will have to fill the void in some other way. I like to think that I will fill it with something productive, but it is so hard when the void is so great (from here to eternity) and my goals in life so broad. Not nonexistent, but broad.

Reading is always a productive pastime, but if I am not reading to accomplish something specific, I feel like I am firing in the dark. I am sure that I can learn or thing or two about the enigmatic nuances of life or about the childhood of Abraham Lincoln, but I am sure that I can focus that learning on something, you know? I have never had the opportunity to be productive and no product to work towards. I guess that this is the reason that we have hobbies and collections and friends, unfortunately none of which I actually have.

I'm not too worried, though, because life is good. I am happy and healthy and live in Sunnyside, where the world always smiles, even when it doesn't. I am not worried about what fills that uncomfortable void, because something good will fall into place. If all else fails, I can start to collect stamps. Or I can write mediocre blogs about how I don't have anything to do with my life.

My inaugural blogging

I have always wondered what this would feel like. It is refreshing, really. I am now blogging. Anthony P. Sheehan, blogger. I like the way that sounds.

I just moved to New York City a couple of weeks ago for an internship at a public relations firm in Times Square. I admit that it's a change from my lovely (a.k.a. uneventful) hometown of Boise, Idaho (I acknowledge that as a gross understatement). The first week I walked around bright-eyed and frightened as I tried to figure out which way was uptown and which way was downtown. As I would wander and bite my nails, I was shoved out of the way and "politely" asked to step aside (New York uses "dumbass" in the same context as Boise uses "please," as in "Get out of the way, please/dumbass."). I have now acclimated myself to the atmosphere to a certain extent, but I still feel like people can still smell my Idaho-ness as I walk down the street. I have tried everything, too. I bought a Knicks hat. I avoid eye contact with everyone. If people ask me directions, I point to my watch and pretend like I know where I am going. But it just doesn't work. I don't strike up a conversation unless I have a direct connection and a selfish motive (which is every New Yorker's mantra). In short, I disguise myself as a New Yorker. But I fall short.

I am still something different. I am still timid when I order doughnuts in the morning, and I don't even know what a felafel is. I answer "yes" every day to the shish kabob guy on the corner to a question I don't understand. I still gawk when I see a street performer or a Hasidic Jew. After thought and consideration, I now realize that no matter how hard I try, I am plagued with chronic un-New Yorker-ness, and there is no cure.