Veterans' Day

Veterans' Day was always such a big deal when I was younger. We would have a big program in the high school gym where veterans from all over the school district would come. The band would play a few patriotic songs, a guest would speak about how honorable military service was, and we would honor those who fought for our country. Just talking about it usually brought my dad to tears. He had such respect for my grandpa and all those who went abroad to fight for freedom. The part of the program that I felt was particularly moving was when the band would play the marches for each of the branches of the military, those veterans who had fought for each branch would stand when their march was played. My grandpa, who served in the Navy during World War II, and narrowly missed being in Hawaii during Pearl Harbor, participated in the program every year until his death. How different the program felt when he was gone.

Here in New York, I barely remembered that yesterday was Veterans' Day. I knew that there was a parade but wasn't able to attend. Most people around me went about their daily routine as if nothing was different. The only celebration I had was a lone musician playing battle hymns in the subway. 

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Yankees 7, Phillies 3

Yankees vs. Phillies

What is a Mets fan to do?

A View of Grand Central

Forty-second Street and Park Avenue is a place full of hustle and bustle. Men rush along the street to office buildings and meetings without so much as a glance around. On the street, life moves at a brisk, hurried pace, but it also moves on each individual’s own time. The businessmen walking down the street have control over their time.

These things change upon entering Grand Central Station. Time takes on its own meaning. Business men, wearing suits and ties, slow down or sped up as their enter, completely dependent on the schedules of trains and the aura of the station.

Standing in the center of the main concourse, an ominous, but elegant space, time is the one thing on everyone’s mind and tongue.

“What time is it?”

“What time does the train come in?”

“What time does the train leave?”

“Do you have a timetable?”

“We have time. What do we do while we wait?”

A large round clock with four faces sits atop the center kiosk. From almost any angle in the open, echoic room, the clock is visible. Below the clock, on the round countertop sits piles upon piles of timetables. Those who don’t already have them memorized stand idly round reading them over, glancing up at the clock every so often.

A man stands anxiously several feet away from the central kiosk, a guitar at his feet, wearing a canvas jacket and glasses. He stands idle but is constantly searching the room, waiting. After several minutes, the wait becomes unbearable and he picks up the guitar and walks aimlessly away.

A voice comes over the announcement system to tell of a train about to leave. Immediately, several of those who had been idling in the concourse pick up their bags and hurry away to an unseen track. Their movements dictated by a voice with no face, a train timetable, and the clock.

Time is the name of the game in Grand Central, the preoccupation of everyone inside.

City of Love

Oh to be in Paris and to be in love....

Who should say "I love you" first?

Beats me. When I said it first I got a hard, cold rejection. When the guy said it first, it was usually far to early in the relationship to be truthful. What's even worse: being told, "I don't love you yet" when you haven't even said it.

This Salon article didn't even help, except to tell me that every situation is different. I mean, that's a given, right? At least I thought so.

I love words!

Art with words:

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