Worth the read

I started reading the blog Stuff White People Like when it had only one million hits. Today, that number is rapidly approaching twenty million.

The blog is witty, funny, and well-written (excepting occasional grammatical errors). It gently pokes fun at generic white culture. The format is simple: Identify a fairly common facet of white culture, parody it, and then instruct the reader how to use it to his advantage.

The blog's humor deftly toes racial lines without causing offense (at least on my part) by staying within certain boudaries. Primarily, it resorts to stereotypes that are not always accurate. A quick skim of the comments will show how many "non-white" readers identify with the posts, and vice versa. Secondly, its tone is consistently light-hearted. It's easy to separate teasing from derision. And lastly, the absurd proposition embedded within every post that this knowledge can be used for one's advantage highlights the comical aspect of the writing.

In sum, if you ever find yourself donning a North Face jacket, eating an $8 sandwich, studying art or the humanities, attending an Oscar Party, preferring microbreweries, or knowing What Is Best for poor people, then this blog is for you.

A stroll through Central Park

A stroll through Central Park sounds delightful, and that's exactly what I'll be doing this spring and summer, rather than running. It is with sadness that for this season I am retiring the "running" label from the blog. I have forgone this love affair during the spring and summer of 2007 owing to a festering knee injury.

After a few months' rest, I thought I was on the mend. I even started a disciplined running regimen to slowly get back into the sport and strengthen the sinews of my joint. On day one, I jogged 100 paces around the track. On day three, I went 110 paces. The next time, it was 121 paces, and then 133, increasing by 10% each time. I made it to 146 paces before the inflammatory pain came and stayed for a week.

These days, a quick sprint across Broadway to catch a bus can be felt a few days later. And so the running and the writing about running must draw to a close. Perhaps the autumn will bring fresh stamina. Until then, I'll stick to the weights at the gym and maybe even venture over to the elliptical machines once in a while, staying well out of sight of the beloved treadmill.

Interesting article about the runner's high.

Resurrection of the blog

Many days and nights have passed since I last logged in to blogger.com. A few months, indeed, have gone by; and although I never had any intention of abandoning Mulberry Street, there were times when I feared I'd crossed that critical point in time after which I'd never return. Were my faithful readers--you know who you are, EK, MG, DGH, Mom--forever to stare vacantly at "A good post call day" and ponder my Pulitzer-worthy surreptitious photo of the retired gentlemen in the chess shop?

No. I'm back. And armed with new ideas and experiences, I'm ready to write. About grammar...poetry...The Economist...and life in general in this amazing City of New York.

A good post call day

I'll have to write about the excitement at the end of my call night some other time. Today, however, was a good blogging day. I finished my shift a little after 0800 and went first thing up to the Marshall's in Marble Hill to look for a new shoulder bag since my old one, courtesy of my old violin teacher, Ms Morrow, is more than ten years old and showing its age.

At Marshall's I found several more good buys: new dress socks, a stove-top espresso maker for $9.99, a good-quality shoulder bag made by the makers of the Swiss Army Knife, athletic pants that are actually long enough without being wide enough in the waist to fit in two of me, and a pair of Timberland casual brown slip-on shoes.

I slept for a few hours at home before venturing out in the first winter storm, or Nor'easter, of the season. The mental image I have for Nor'easter is thick swirling flakes resulting in a gleaming blanket of freshly fallen snow. This, strangely, was not concordant with my experience of a slushy wintry mix that made the sidewalks slippery and produced a slurpee-like bog at the bus stop's curb. The most pleasing image from the "storm" was seeing small trees' spidery branches covered in a thin layer of clear ice.

After a little exercise at Columbia's fitness center, I met up with Lauren and Maurcio at 116th and Broadway, where we boarded the 1 Train to take us down to SoHo where we had hot chocolate at Jacques Torres. Mauricio and I had the "wicked" hot cocoa (spiced with chili pepper) and Lauren had the incredibly dainty espresso. I mentioned to her that I might feel annoyed if I'd ordered espresso and gotten the mere tablespoon's worth her cup held. Only then did I realize that she too was slightly annoyed with her portion size!

We wandered for an hour or so around SoHo and the West Village where we made stops at a cheese shop, the Magnolia Bakery, and the Chess Shop (see picture above) where Tyler, a friend of Lauren, was working. Only in NYC can you find a shop devoted to chess...and the rival Chess Emporium was just across the street! The Chess Shop, however, had a better atmosphere and a good-sized room with people playing chess for $2 an hour. It was the sort of place where one might pull out a pipe to smoke and was slightly run down, whereas the Chess Emporium seemed newer and more commercialized. The "Starbucks" of the chess world, if you will.

Mauricio came over for a light dinner of leftover zucchini soup, toasted turkey sandwiches, chips, and a Magnolia cupcake, and I got to spend the remainder of the evening tucked in bed reading and writing this post. Ah, the only thing lacking from the post-call day was a crossword puzzle...

4 8 15 16 23 42

Some numbers follow me in life. Take 113. My address growing up--113 Horseshoe Drive. Also the URL of this blog. It's one of my numbers. I also like 259, the number of the highway that runs north/south through my hometown of Kilgore, Texas.

One number that has recurred on multiple occasions is 352, so I'm officially embracing it as another one of my numbers. Its appearances are impressive:

• The prefix of my telephone number in the city where I went to medical school and internship
• My apartment number during internship
• My violin locker during undergrad at Baylor for four years

The violin locker has one of the more interesting stories. I was visiting campus with a friend of mine who was about to start grad school at Baylor. I took Jessica by the music building to show her my old stomping grounds, and eventually we wandered over to the music lockers. I knew, of course, which row my locker was on, but its exact location, five years after graduating in 2001, was lost to me. I pointed vaguely to a locker and said, "I think my locker was around here."

At this point, Jessica started laughing. I'd pointed to locker 352, but at that point she probably didn't know of 352's recurrences in my life. What she was laughing at was that there, next to the number, was a faded label with my name penciled in! After five years with surely at least two different occupants of the locker, no one had bothered changing my name on the locker. And now, a year and a half later as I remember the incident, it seems like there was something unusual within, perhaps a little plastic Mozart figurine or something of the sort.

So thus, the sequence begins: 113, 259, 352