How Long Should a Moment of Silence Last?

I realize I've just posted a big, ole' ramble about me, me, me, with scant mention of the devastation of NOLA, or the devastating response by our supposed leaders. I don't really know if I can say anything which will be of worth, and certainly my thoughts are no more interesting than those of the many astute thinkers of the day. I will, say, however, that this time feels very bleak and dark, in a grand sense. Far more saddening than our descent into the supposed "Age of Terror," or the senseless slaughter in Iraq. As with both of those cases, this was so very preventable, and, as with those cases, again, a case of politics-gone-bad to the core.

Beyond all of that (which seems so obvious), I will also say that I have loved New Orleans since I first set foot there - the city appealed to me for all of its strange beauty, tangible restlessnes, and lazy grandeur. I took my honey there for a surprise birthday trip earlier this year, and feel so lucky to have soaked up the city one last time, and to have shared it with him.

Gone With the Schwinn

Where to begin? When we left off, I believe that my life was being boxed and moved, and my nerves were frayed. Aah, memories. We moved. Done. Kaput. Never again. I say that every time, but this time, with this amazing, beautiful home, it seems like my words and predictions may have some merit. We are very much home here, despite feeling like our worn belongings don’t fit in our sparkly, classy home. It’s like wearing Converse with a dress – some might be charmed by the combo, but really…

Summer passed (yes, it seems officially in the past) in a blur. There’s nothing like teetering on the brink of breakdown to make time fly. We started the whole moving ordeal on July 5, and just started breathing easy a week or so ago. So, now I’m looking up and around me and wondering how it’s possible that leaves are turning but I feel like it should be July 6. This will go down in our history book as the summer of cardboard and realtors and packing tape, not the usual weekend away, camping and grilling to which we’ve grown accustomed. I can’t complain – it all feels so perfectly worthwhile.

In the midst of it all, I jetted around a bit on biz. Business is going bonkers, with clients coming out of the woodwork (how’s that for a visual?) and presenting us with fun/demanding projects to somehow make genius. Stressful? Yes. Invigorating? Definitely. Let’s see… I headed to Detroit for the first time, and was wowed by the dining options – Bob’s Big Boy and Bahama Breeze! Staying in an airport hotel and drinking a single-serve bottle of chardonnay will certainly be a cherished memory. Oh, and the traffic! The Motor City wowed me with its incomprehensible miles of freeway repair. I truly can’t recall a stretch of freeway there which wasn’t narrowed to two operating lanes. Delightful. I traveled with a client, which was fine, but not my preferred method of biz travel. He had the rental car, so we were pretty much alongside each other the entire 48 hours – no room for me to just run to the drug store for a lip liner sharpener, or to the corner store for a bottled water. I had to be on the whole time – charming, witty, and composed. Hmph.

A week or two ago (who’s counting?) I headed to SF for the SF Grand Prix bike race. Amazing. I love love loved it, watching these incredible athletes out-power vehicles and dogs. Plus, they ain’t so tough on the eyes, a disclosure I find it necessary to make. Don’t worry, I’ve blathered about the gams and looks to my beloved. No secrets in our sweet house.

So, yeah: I’ve recently become rather obsessed with my bicycle, and the trip to SF was perfectly timed. Let me be more clear: I know almost nothing about my actual bike – it’s the riding with which I’ve become obsessed. I’m constantly looking for opportunities to hop on the bike and zoom around town.

It’s strange, this love of mine. Those of you who have known me throughout my ages might recall that I was an avowed anti-athlete when I was a charming, young hipster. There I sat, in cafes around LA, talking about my hangovers, chain-smoking cigarettes, and debating the merits of indie vs. major labeldom. Indulge me for a moment: I had a boyfriend (well, we never called him that, but I thought of him hopefully that way…) who was a musician. We met the night I moved into my first-ever apartment. We would go out for drinks on dates, and sit awkwardly, trying to find a connection beyond mutual, slurpy attraction. He would down Greyhounds and tell me tales of wanting to buy a house, and trying to get in shape for the marathon, two concepts which seemed as alien to me as voting Republican. As I drank my ever-present Gimlets, I wondered why anyone would want to buy a house. I couldn’t fathom it. Why run? Ew. And 26 miles? Good lord, impossible to do with a hangover, clad in shorts which likely didn’t have a pocket for cigarettes. We broke up, of course. I look back on that interaction fondly, now. I love who I was then, in a somewhat maternal way. I want to cup that person in my hands, and smile lovingly.

I write this drenched in sweat, having just scrambled around my new neighborhood on a 10-mile ride. I know at least 20 names of various bike-stuff manufacturers, and recently read an issue of Bicycling Magazine cover to cover. Funny how life evolves, ain’t it? Nice to want gear which has pockets for iPods and water bladders, and not GPC Lights. Nice to ride up to the house I bought with my wonderful man.

Where am I going with all of this? Who cares? This is the beauty of the blog. I ramble, and it feels good. Just like the bike. I ride, it feels good. Better than good, actually. Golden.