Plumb Finished

I realize that no one else cares—except maybe Turbo if he ever reads this—but I am so pleased with my newfound skills at plumbing!

After buying the vent I mentioned earlier, I had to make several trips to the plumbing supply store to get the right PVC pipes. And I had to use my hacksaw on pipes too, because they only come in super-long pieces.

I found the purple primer and PVC cement that Turbo left in the bottom of my tool closet, and it was a stinky operation, but in the end I have an island sink drain that works like a charm and doesn't go glub, glub, glub.

I love when things go as planned.

They Do

72 hours after I said I'd never be in another wedding, I was in another wedding.

It was kind of an accident.

Babc0ck and Jenn had opted out of having a big ceremony. They'd actually been planning it for weeks, but sprang it on everyone else suddenly to avoid potential wedding hijackers—you know, well-intentioned friends and relatives who just want to help them out in ways they don't want to be helped.

They'd wanted Pond Scum to be their witness, but that didn't work out when it was discovered that he had no legal identification. No driver's license, no passport, no state ID. He'd once had an official card issued by his reservation (he's Native American) but no one is sure where it went.

You need ID to get into City Hall, and in theory to be a witness. Plus, I think he had to work.

I wanted to see the ceremony, and I arrived while Jenn's sister and mother were in the restroom. Jenn and Babc0ck went to wait in line at the info desk. I followed, curious to see bureaucracy in action.

The information officer did not look up as we approached her desk. She held her hand out.

"Money order."

Babc0ck handed it over. She made a few marks. She still didn't look up. Her hand went out again.

"Form."

He handed over a form. She marked a few blanks. She finally looked up.

"Groom? You the groom?"

"That's me."

"Sign here."

Babc0ck signed by the X.

"Bride?"

Jenn signed.

"You the witness?" She was looking at me.

"Guess so," Jenn said, laughing. Her family was still MIA.

"Sign here." I signed. No one asked me for ID. I was suddenly Best Man again. The officer handed all the papers to Babc0ck.

"Go stand in that line."

The next line was the money line. We gave the money order to a friendly woman who was behind a thick wall of glass, like a bank teller. She handed Jenn a receipt.

"Go to Window 7."

At Window 7, Babc0ck handed over the license and got a certified document in exchange.


"Now wait in the hall for them to call your name."

The three-line process had taken about one-and-a-half minutes, involved a lot of stamping, and no showing of identification.

"I'll go find your mother and sister." Babc0ck headed to the restrooms.

Thirty seconds later, a string of names was called. The last names were Jonathan and Jennifer.

Jenn's eyes got big.

"I'll go into the waiting room--you go find Jonathan!"

I got as far as the elevator when I remember the magic of cell phones. I dialed him, and he strolled up a second later.

"I couldn't find them."

"Well, then they'll miss it. C'mon! They called your name. Do you want Jenn to marry herself?"

We went into the waiting room. The line got smaller and smaller, as each couple disappeared into the chapel.

Only one other couple was left, when Jenn's family finally showed.

The officiant was a gregarious and sensible woman, who efficiently married Babc0ck and Jenn in under two minutes. They exchanged a few rings they'd bought earlier on St. Mark's Place, from a man who'd given them a discount when he learned they were wedding rings. Or maybe it was because they didn't have the right change.

Mr. and Mrs. Whatever-Names-They're-Using walked out of New York's municipal buillding only minutes after entering it. It was easier than getting a driver's license. The security check lasted longer than the ceremony.

And for me, always the Best Man and never the Bride, it was painless and even, fun.

Congolese Hippos in Trouble

An article in the New York Times this weekend reported this of hippos in Congo, in the national park where the mountain gorillas also live:

“Between July and October, 508 hippopotamuses and 48 elephants were killed,” said Deo Mbula, head warden in the east of the Virunga National Park, where the animals are most prevalent. “There are 308 hippos left. At this rate there will be none left in a month.”

That's terrible... and yet, the people killing the animals for profit subsist on less than ten dollars a month.

It's a bit of a tough situation for the poor hippo, who is just minding his own business and knows nothing of poverty or dollars.

What's a hippo to do?

Going... Going...

My condo has been--maybe--sold.

Anyway, a deal has been made and my attorney is reviewing the contract.

Okay, not my attorney. Seems my attorney—who last met with me to close on my garage in 2004—has moved to Florida. I have a new real estate lawyer.

A lot can still go wrong. The buyers could see something they don't like in the contract (though I think these are fairly standard). They could ask me to alter things in the condo that I don't want to do. (I'd probably flat out refuse as I live here just fine and don't see anything wrong with the place.)

I didn't get an especially good price. The market is changing. Has changed. I probably lost $20-30,000 by selling at the totally wrong time. Sure, it's way more than I paid for the place. But it isn't about profit. It's about what I can buy now, bearing in mind I'll get a higher interest rate and surely higher taxes as well. All I can really hope for out of the deal is a lateral move, and rearranging of my debt to where it is all in one mortgage on a new place, instead of spread out over several unaffordable payments a month.

I'm already having second thoughts. What if prices only go up? What if I never find such a great place again? Won't I miss the great old-time neighborhood, and talking to the senior citizens every day? Won't I miss having Roberta live five doors down? Running into my old housemate Otis when he walks the dog in her building? Won't I feel guilty for abandoning all of Turbo's hard work?

Last time I sold, I had the same kinds of thoughts. And I got something MUCH better in the end.

I hope that happens again.

Djenné, World Heritage Site

I just finished reading Jeffrey Tayler's book Angry Wind: Through Muslim Black Africa by Truck, Bus, Boat, and Camel. I like Jeffrey Tayler's writing, and his book Facing the Congo, about going down the Congo River in a small rowboat helped get me through some rough patches in Namibia last year.

Tayler travels in a more intellectual way than I do. He prepares ahead of time. He speaks five languages and writes for Atlantic Monthly. He's written four books and contributed to National Geographic and Harper's. My whole schtick is more like "Hey, who knows where to catch the bus, or wait, IS there a bus" mixed with innovative sign language.

In Chapter 17 of Angry Wind, Tayler visits Djenné, the Malian city famous for its mud mosque and old mud-brick houses. He thought it quite stunning (it's a major sight in West Africa) and said so.

A local man responded that UNESCO, by making it a World Heritage Site, had doomed the town. They were not allowed to use modern construction techniques, were forced to live in mud huts.

"How would you like it," said the man, "if you were forced to repair everything as it was done in the ninth century, without the use of cement? Would you want to live in New York if it hadn't been repaired in centuries?"

Having read about 1890s conditions in my old Avenue B neighborhood, and having listened to my neighbor talk about how cold my current place was when he lived here as a kid and there was only a small gas burner as heat, I'd have to say that I would not like it at all.

The Malian's complaints reminded me of similar ones I'd heard from shopkeepers in the UNESCO-protected Hoi An, Vietnam. "I can't even take down that old sign and put up a sign for my own business" said one coffee shop owner.

It also reminded me of people complaining in my own neighborhood. "I haven't replaced the windows because we're in a historic district, and I can't afford the wooden historic ones." "We can't paint it that color because it has to be a color on the City Hall historic chart." "We have to use cedar siding, which costs more than vinyl."

There are always two sides to everything.

Which One is Not Like the Others?

Yancey just sent me this photo of his wedding party. Now that it's in the past instead of a future-something filling me with dread, I'm looking back at it fondly.

For the record, if anyone else wants me to be in their wedding, I'm very sorry, but I'm overfilled my quota in the "Always a best man, never a bride" department. I don't want to be in any more weddings. Not even my own. Especially my own.

Though I will wear a witch hat and go down to City Hall with Babc0ck and Jenn on Halloween. That's different. It's more like helping someone get a driver's license.

Wish I Had A Camera Phone

I saw him today!

The locally famous guy who always dresses smoothly, kind of like Hollywood's idea of a pimp at the height of the blaxploitation film era.

He looked awesome, walking down Jersey Avenue in a full-length faux fur vibrant purple coat, matching wide-brimmed hat, and checkered pointed shoes.

I couldn't help but stare. Last time Roberta saw him, she had more presence of mind. "You look great," she said. "You do too," said the well-dressed and not-shy man.

I was on my way to see my real estate agent, to sign the contract for the sale of my condo. A lot can still go wrong. Perhaps I'm making a big mistake, jumping ship when there are guys in purple fur hats around.

More Antarctic Explorer Tidbits

Here are two interesting facts I learned yesterday while reading about the great age of Antarctica exploration.

-There are moon craters named for Shackleton, Scott, and Amundsen. Shackleton Crater is at the moon's south pole, even though Amundsen and Scott were the ones who raced to the Pole. I guess Shackleton got the place of honor because "Boss" had the most colorful adventures.

-Writer Roald Dahl (James and the Giant Peach, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) was named for Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen, first to the South Pole and most effficient of the three.

New Writing Gig

I'm writing the text for a 3-D children's atlas. It's actually a lot of fun, but much harder than I expected. I have to submerse myself in children's writing, to rearrange how I put words together. It's going to take a few months.

For the last two days, I've been writing about Antarctica. Should be easy, right? Penguins, ice, whales, Shackleton.

It's really not all that cut and dry. (Speaking of dry, did you know Antarctica is technically a desert?)

Yesterday I learned that the following famous quote is most likely an embellishment, even though just about everyone believes it was actually an ad placed by Ernest Shackleton for the Endurance voyage.

"Men wanted for hazardous journey. Low wages, bitter cold, long hours of complete darkness. Safe return doubtful. Honour and recognition in event of success."

No one has ever found a source! And people have really looked. It's a great quote though, and apt for a trip that included five months of camping on ice after the Endurance was crushed, followed by horrific sea voyages in row boats, and finally by a 36-hour hike over an icy island.

There's a hardcover book out of the incredible photos taken by the expedition photographer, Frank Hurley.

Foliage Photos

I actually did get some non-blurry photos on the Amtrak trip to Montreal and back.

Problem is, aside from a bit o' sunshine from Penn Station to the Tappan Zee, it was either 1) raining or 2) threatening to rain.

All my photos are overcast.

I did what I could to clean them up. But short of adding yellow or cyan to the sky, there's not much to be done about it.