"Il est creve."

"Il est creve."

Crever is an unusual French verb. One of those verbs that can be used in completely different ways and takes on different meanings. Literally it is "to be punctured or bursted," but can also be used as "to be exhausted." In this case, it took on its most grave interpretation. "He is dead."

It was the mid-way through the first quarter of La Flash De La Courneuve's first game against the St. Ouen Cougars. We were ahead 7-2 and driving. A first down had just been negated, thanks to another holding or alignment penalty. It was now third-and-20, and we were on our own 25 yard-line. Thus far the game had been one careless mistake after another, with play so sloppy neither team could take advantage. Just another day of semi-pro football is Europe.

Roommate and QB Jeff Welsh comes into the huddle from the sideline. He slowly relays the play to nine blank French stares and to myself.

"Six Waggle Right Halfback Screen Left... on one."

Again.

"Six Waggle Right Halfback Screen Left... on one... on one."

From left tackle position this play allows me to run. I get to move downfield... and I am keyed up to unload. We've only ran this play a few times in practice, but I remember many versions of this very same play years past on the gridiron.

Jeff runs through the cadence and at the snap of the ball I deep-set my defensive end, hoping to draw him upfield, ... but at his speed I could have been there all day.

After my third kick step I stop, and let the defensive end past my outside shoulder. But before he can get too excited, I plant a blow into the middle his back and knock him to the turf. I turn downfield.

I avoid our running back and the ball which is now leaving Jeff's hand and floating somewhere above my head.

My stride becomes longer, and my eyes dart from left to right. I gain speed, and as I charge a black jersey comes into my sights.

He goes low, and I meet him, at full speed, with muscled hands and steel facemask all at once.

I get up and jog back to the huddle. The play had gone for a 25-yards and a first down. Nearing the huddle, I think all eyes are on me, the Frenchmen in awe of my powerful downfield block. It is only then that I realize they are all looking past me, at the motionless body of the Cougars defensive back.

"Il est creve," mutters Lolo the right guard.

Seconds later the wounded was surrounded by staff and coaches, and much to mine and everyone else's relief, his limbs began to move. He was clutching is chest as he was carried off the field.

I would learn after the game, that his collarbone was broken on the play.

We went on to win the clumsy semi-football game 20-8. Regardless of the play that injured the Cougars' player, it was the most fun I'd had on the football field yet on this trip to France. I played the entire game on offense, and because of injuries to defensive lineman, I played most of the last three quarters as the starting 3 technique.

Football is a rough sport, and although I never intend to injure another player on the field, I do not feel guilty for what happened. And apparrently neither did my teammates and they "ohhhed and ahhed" it up Monday night during film.

"Dude. Please take off the Cardinals hat!"

This week in Paris has been a blur of sightseeing and getting logistical things done for our long- term stay.

After sleeping in late my second day, it started with a meeting with Mariannick, the team secretary, at the Flash office. We were given our transit passes that allow us full access to all of Paris Metro Lines, RER Lines, buses, and trams. We also need to sign some kind of players license.

Note on signing day: I hope it wasn't anything really important, because the entire document was in French and Mariannick's English isn't top notch, so she just pointed to a couple blank lines and I didn't my best Herbie Hancock. Jeff and I met with Esume once again, trying to wrap our heads around Esume less-than-simple offense, a combination of Cleveland Brown and Hamburg Sea Devils. Jeff and I are having a hard enough time picking it up, I can't imagine how the French guys are handling it.

Team President Julian came in and Jeff and I met him for the first time. A former player, Julian is the head of the board of trustees in-charge of the team, and the most active, although most day-to-day operations is handled by Mariannick and Bruno.

That evening Jeff and I decided it was about time to put our freshly minted transit passes to use and figure out where the RER and metro station are in relation to the flat, ... as well as catch our first glimpse of la Ile de Cite. Following Cedric's lead, we walk to the RER station hopped on the B and 10 minutes and 3 stops later hopped out at Chaletet-Les Halles and walk out in to the chilly Parisan night.

Our first walkabout took us down to the Georges Pompidou Centre (France's world famous modern art museum and exhibition hall), down Rue Rivoli, infront of the eastern edge of Louvre, then back to le Pont Neuf along the Seine. The photo behind the background of the blog title is taken here, and through the lazy haze you can see the Tour Effiel in the distance with its spotlight shining through the mist.

As it was getting late and we still weren't sure of the trainline's timetable we decide to walk back to Les Halles and stopped to grab a gyro on the way. Quick ride home, and still a bit jet-lagged I started unpacking and then collasped into bed.

The next day, Mariannick stop by again, and shows us how the radiators and washer is used, (I feel retarded) and then takes us to the bank at noon, to get our bank account and debit card settled so we can recieve our salary electronically. Afterwards we head to a Super Wal-mart size place named Carrefour to load up on groceries.

Note on Carrefour: Everything about this play seemed totally contrary to everything I thought France and the French were about. Batteries, sweaters, coffee makers, and fish all sold in the same store? Well I guess, captialism has a far reach, even to mostly socialist France.

After another horrible practice indoors at that same gym, Cedric cooked dinner back at the apartment.

The next morning Jeff and I had to meet Esume at the Flash office to go over some more of the offense so were up at 11, and attempted to find our way through La Courneuve to the stadium on foot. After meeting with Esume til 3, we decided it was time for a proper downtown stroll about this time without our French fluent roommate Cedric.

Jumping on the RER, then transfering to a Metro line at Chatelet, we walk out of the Metro at Place de la Concorde, a gigantic trafffic circle with another obelisk in the center. This was the spot where Louis XVI , Marie Antionette, and many others lost their heads the guiltotines but during the French Revoluiton. The Place borders the Seine to it's south and the Jardin de Tuileries to it's east. A large, white ferris wheel is here, and is said to give you an amazing view of the city. Jeff and I decided that would be best to do with female companionship and moved onto the Jardins de Tuileries.

The Jardins de Tuileries is a massive 63-acre garden that lies between the Place de la Concorde and the Lourve. The grounds of a former palace that was destroyed in 1871 by riots of the Parisians. Since it's January the gardens are not in full bloom, but it had a different kind of beauty. Naked trees, bare fountains, and frost-tipped bushes were frozen still in cold air, I felt like I was special getting to see a view of the famous gardens that wouldn't make it into any guidebooks or trave mags. At the east of the gardens, the northern (Sully) and southern (Denon) wings of the Lourve stretched out like arms reaching for a piece of this quietness.

Note on the Jardins: The one thing that spoiled this for me was being approached every 20 seconds by an African trying to sell me and more often Jeff, some kind of friendship bracelet. These guys have no shame, and won't leave you alone. I'd completely ignore them, but Jeff, (baseball cap = American) stops and talks to them. Rule #1 when dealing with beggars and con artists, ... never stop walking to talk to them.

Now I.M. Pei's glass pyramid was in sight, and I became dissapointed it was late in the evening, because I knew I would be just wasting time if I went into the museum now. I have seven months in Paris, so I am sure I will find a few days to explore this massive home of Mona Lisa and Winged Victory.

Regardless, Jeff and I descend in to the pyramid to check out the sprawling underground entrance to the musuem. The musuems three different wings all feed into this cavernous room. Cafes, bookstores, and a library lead to an underground subway entrance, as well as the less famous inverse pyramid, which I knew from Dan Brown's best-selling Da Vinci Code.

The rest of the evening highlights read like a tourist blog, which I still am in denial about. I wanted to just SEE everything, I would worry about explore these world-famous monuments sometime later in my stay.

A walk through the 7e arrondisement, (mostly upper class apartment homes and embassies) took us to la Tour Effiel. Beautiful by night, I snapped a few photos.

To end the day we took a subway ride to le Etoile and caught a view of the Arc de Trouimphe.

To end the day we walked down the Champs-Elyesses. McDonald's, Starbucks, and Louis Vuitton. That is about all I have to say about that .

After a long day of seeing a little of a lot, we took the subway to the RER and the RER home.

On a side note, check out Sebastian Tellier's "La Ritournelle." That song as well some songs from Frightened Rabbit, (weird name, awesome tunes) especially "Good Arms vs. Bad Arms" and "Modern Leper." These songs have been going through my ears, as my eyes have been taking in Paris.

I hope things are great back home. Keep me up-to-date.

Bleu-Vingt-Deux, Sur Un

"The flight would be a good time to get some shut-eye", I thought awaiting my connection in Philadelphia, on my way to Paris. Contrary to my intentions, I didn't catch a wink on the flight. I had an aisle seat, so drink carts and people with tiny bladders made sure of this. During the 7-hour U.S. Airways flight I sat next to a French professor from Hamilton college in upstate New York. She spends her springs in Paris working at Bibliothèque nationale de France, or the National Library of France, translating and studying medieval texts and documents... obviously in French. It was nearing 10 a.m. local time when the plane broke through the low ceiling of clouds and I caught my first glance of Parisian soil. Charles De Gualle is a distance outside of Paris, so snow-capped farmland and the frosty countryside rose beneath me upon approach. After a long wait on the runway, I was rushed through customs, just to find a longer wait for my three huge bags. I finally exited the terminal to meet Bruno, the general manager, and head coach Patrick Esume. Note on the coaches: Esume looks, acts, and talks like an American, ...but he is actually a German citizen with a Nigerian background. He reminds me of many college coaches I had, all extremely knowledgable, exploded with energy, and loaded with the passion for the game that I almost don't understand. It is his first year with the Flash de la Courneuve, and I still think he is learning to understand what to expect at this level of football, that is, compared to the NFL Europe and NFL intern coaching experience his resume is packed with. Climbing into Esume's Audi, our first stop was the apartment, a flat owned by the team for years. The apartment was a pleasent surprise compared to past living arrangement in Helsinki. At about 120 square meters, or nearly 1200 square feet, the flat (I am in Europe so I have to call it that now) it is a good size place as far as European flats go. There are 3 bedrooms, a large dinning area, living room with three couches, and full kitchen. A 32-inch flat screen television, with a the full French package. (The only perk to this is NASN, or North American Sports Network) and wireless internet. There is only one full bathroom, but the toilet has it's own closet size room as well, ... don't ask. Since I was the first American to arrive, (Jeff's plane was grounded at his connection in Munich the night before due to snow, tough luck!), I of course chose the largest bedroom in the rear of flat. Lunch was at a local Chinese restaurant, so my first meal the world's cuisine capital is secondhand Chinese buffet. (It was Mexican it was Helsinki.) We meet the team secretary, and do-everything Mariannick Puig, and team accountant Stephanie. Swiss roommate Cedric joined us and Mariannick, Bruno, and Esume filled me on my schedule over the next couple of days. Transit passes, banking information, player's license, and a doctor's visit for insurance purposes would keep me occupied on most of my days off over the next week. Beyond that, the Flash only practice twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays, with an additional meeting-only session on Mondays. Games will always be on Saturdays or Sundays, our first of which is the 25th, away at the St. Ouen Cougars. Cedric Charpilloz is from Lausanne, Switzerland and a medical doctor and plays TE. They go about medical school differently in Europe and since he's finished school, he's come to Paris to play football and look for a job. It's a 4 hour high-speed train ride home for him, so Coach Esume agreed to put him up free of charge in the team's flat's third open bedroom. French is his first language and he's been to Paris before, so he is helpful to have around.

Jeff flight's came in shortly after lunch, so and Esume and myself went to airport to pick him up and then we went back to football office in La Courneuve.

Jeff Welsh is from Chicago, and played QB at Western Michigan. He played arena ball in the AFL for a few years and then stop playing all together. This is his first time in Europe, and is doing now kind of what I did last spring when I decided to go to Helsinki, ...dropping everything to experience something new. La Courneuve itself is a large neighborhood northeast of Paris and is connected to other Northern Paris neighborhoods, i.e. St. Denis, and Noisy-le-sec, by a tramline similar to those I used while in Helsinki. Note on La Courneuve: It is not Paris's nicest neighborhood, but I would call it far from a bad one, compared to bad neighborhoods in the States. The high immigrant population seem to make Jeff and I the stand out even more as Americans here in France. The greatest thing about La Courneuve is that is directly on all of Paris's main transportation lines. I have a five minute walk to the station from the flat, 10-15 minutes on the RER's B line and you are staring at Notre-Dame. There was a team meeting at 7:45 in the evening which was to be followed by practice. As Jeff, Cedric, and I sat in the office players started to stream in. Most guys are probably in their mid-twenties to mid thirties, from all different ethnic mixes and background and all only fluent in French. Note on the teammates: It was amazing the energy these guys had. Joking around, yelling, wrestling with each other... I felt like I was sitting in on a huge group of best friends who hadn't seen each other in months. I'd soon learn this is how it always is, ... everyone takes the time to go around to everyone else to greet them and ask them how they are. It is more then a just a greeting but a ritual where one starts at one side of the room and makes their way around sometime saying bon soir with a handshake, other times with a cheek-to-cheek kiss. As simple as that is... it is amazing to me. It is time consuming but extremely passionate, respectful, and truly genuine.

The meeting began, (after 30 minutes, of hugs, cheek-to-cheeks) and Jeff and I were introduced by Coach Esume. After a short scolding about player's licenses not being renewed by some of the guys, we were dismissed to practice. The fields were still covered in snow, so practice was at a gymnasium a short drive from the office and Stade Geo Andre.

A fast-paced, walk-through practice followed. I really wasn't there mentally, being jet-lagged, not having slept for 32 hours, and not understanding much of what was being said or explained to me in broken English by the French offensive line coach. Note on practice: Unlike Finland, all play-calling and instruction is given in French. So "blue twenty-two, on two" is actually "bleu-vingt-deux, sur deux" ...but in rapid, slurred French. "Alert" sounds like "olurrrrrrr." 60 Power, a common American running play is the unrecognizable "soixante owwwer." The playbook is not difficult to learn, but the combination of translation and misinterpretation make just remember the play and snapcount a complicated exercise of concentration. Immediately following practice, Cedric, Jeff, and I piled into Yoan's (back-up QB, and now infamously dubbed "bleu-vingt-deux') tiny Renault, and got a ride home. I didn't even bother starting to unpack. My eyes were closed before my head hit the pillow.

Goodnight Paris. Sightseeing will have to wait.

The Met and Gray's Papaya

I don't mean to ramble on in these letters, and I hope no one feels obligated to read my nonsense. I am trying to sit down a couple times a weeks and spit out all things that I've been doing and thinking, ... but maybe you are just the kind of person who is willing to spend a few precious moments of your life staring at another email from someone in their mid-twenties about traveling and the interesting things they think they are doing.

If you are that person please let me pick up where I left off in New York City before I get to my first week Paris.

After see Phantom of the Opera on 44th street, Victoria and I decided to hike the 40 or so blocks up to the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art (located on the eastern edge of Central Park at 80th & 5th). One freezing hour later, we lumbered up the steps, and waded our way through sea of tourists, (who knew the Met was a hot Saturday night date spot) to find out the "suggested" admission, was pretty far from suggested. Posing as intellectually-driven students we "donated" $20 to the musuem and began our evening in the buildings northern Egyptian wing.

Note on the Metropolitian Museum of Art: It has a permanent collection containing more than two million works of art, divided into nineteen curatorial departments. The main building, often referred to simply as "the Met," is one of the world's largest art galleries. We arrived at 4 p.m., and the musuem closed at 9. We didn't get to see everything is an understatement, but what we did get to see surpassed my expectations.

The highlight of the Egyptian wing was definetly the Temple of Dendur. Dismantled by the Egyptian government to save it from rising waters caused by the building of the Aswan High Dam, the large sandstone temple was given to the United States in 1965 and assembled in the Met's Sackler Wing in 1978. The Temple dominates a large room in the northern wing and is partially surrounded by a reflecting pool. It is illuminated by a wall of windows opening onto Central Park and is a beauty to behold in person. The craftmanship and detail of most of the art in the exhibit blew with away with how ancient everything around me was.

After wandering through the Asian exhibit, I founding myself alone in the European Masters area of the museum. Mostly empty, I felt I had all the time in the world to view Rembrandt, Raphael, Poussain, and Velazquez. Mostly religious art from the 15th to 18th centuries, the historical scenes depicted astounded me. Finding Victoria taking a well-deserved rest, we moved on to the Nineteeth-Century European Painting Wing that housed some of the world's most popular and well-known romantic artists and impressionists. We gazed as Van Gogh, Manet, Picasso, Degas, Seruat, and Renoir.

Note on art: I am far from an art expert. But apparently years of forced education must of left some kind of impression, (art pun intended) upon my brain. Names and images jumped out at me as if somehow familiar. I became suddenly interested in the difference between Monet and Manet. Picasso painting began to look less like kindergarten scribble and more like art. I realized Van Gogh really did paint the same tree from different times and angles, in "Cypresses" and "Starry Night". It was the most interesting thing to stand 15 feet from Georges Seurat's "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte" and it look powerfully colorful and crystal clear, but upper further inspection from inches away... notice in was nothing but drab, blurred blotches. But on a completely serious note, I truly enjoyed myself. I was unrushed to leave to say the least.

Nine o'clock snuck up quickly and we quietly obeyed the friendly staff as the ushered us out of the Modern and Comtempary Art exhibit. After a quick subway and unintended walk around the east side of Mid-town, we met up with my sister and Greg at 33rd & 8th.

From the corner of my eye, a flashing, yellow sign caught my attention. Could it be?!? Would days of fruitless searching soon be over? AY'S AYA is all I could make out from the angle of the avenue from my vantage point on 8th. I took off immediately, almost breaking from a brisk walk into a jogger's gait.

Note on my sudden change: During my summer in Helsinki I got into the habit of download movies on my laptop to watch to fall asleep to in the evening. I came upon the complete series of Anthony Bourdain's Travel Channel show titled "No Reservations". Bourdain is a wise-cracking chef who visits overseas countries, cities worldwide, and places within the States, where hosts treat him to local culture and cuisine. During Bourdain episode about his home city, New York, he takes his crew to visit Gray's Papaya. Since that moment I made it my mission to eat a hot dog in that same Gray's Papaya and experience firsthand what Tony is making a fuss about. Days of searching and asking locals about the location were to no avail, ... that is until this one glorious moment....

The sign appears four short blocks away, I can make that is two minutes, I think to myself. I am oblivious to the fact I am leading three foreigners, through Hell's Kitchen (North Carolina might as well be another country) because all that is presently running through my twisted mind is the horrible yellow neon of that marquee.

GRAY'S PAPAYA reveals itself in all its terrifying glory as I cross 37th. I race towards the door and in my excitement I stumble over a disheved vagrant. He smiled at me and I noticed he had more fingers on his hands then teeth in his mouth, ... yet in his smile I saw the resplendent glow of true happiness, ... and in his grimy hand was a Gray's hot dog.

Anxiously I approached the counter and ask the clerk, who is clearly from the Asian sub-continent, for a "Recession Special," or two dogs and a Papaya smoothie. As I sink my teeth through first the toasted yet soft bun and into the savory meat, a calmness, ... no... a peace descends around me. For that one moment all is right with world.

I digress, ... it was a good hot dog.
And Saturday was a good day.

Sunday was our last full day in the city. So after mass at the Church of the Holy Cross and a quick brunch at 44 X, Victoria and I went to the New York Musuem of Modern Art, or MOMA. I could go on and on about how amazing that was, but I think I might hit the culture limit for this letter. Dinner was enjoyable at Florio's in Little Italy, and MaryEllen thought the best way to end the trip and the evening was at McSorley's, ... where we were asked "Light or Dark" as we sat down, and then our Irish barmen dropped 10 mugs of the good stuff down on our table. A couple of rounds later, we all called it a night.

The next morning was a frenzy of packing and goodbyes and Victoria and MaryEllen dropped me off at LaGuardia.

Paris in the next letter I promise.

Blog with photos: http://www.jtmckeon75.blogspot.com/
Link to webalbums: http://picasaweb.google.com/jtmckeon75
Teams's website w/schedule: http://www.flashfootball.org/

My address and phone number:

2 allee du Moulin Neuf
93120 La Courneuve
Paris France

No. 014 83 89 681

Oh, The Places You Will Go!

The blog has begun. This is the first of many, I promise. I welcome all feedback and give you a warning that this is stream-of-conscience writing and there might be grammatical errors, ... I guess I just don't think in proper grammar. And I know if you are reading this right now you don't really need to see the blog, but here is the website anyway. http://www.jtmckeon75.blogspot.com/ Link to my previous blog in Helsinki, Finland can be found here http://www.jtmckeon.blogspot.com/ I decided I wanted to start writing before I left. I wanted to do it that way so my first entry could be totally non-biased and written in my comfort zone of Raleigh, North Carolina. But the past three weeks have been extremely hectic. Moving out of my apartment, settling bills, and packing for 7 1/2 months for an oversea move, all during the holiday weeks... are not for the faint of heart. So it is over a week and a half later, and I am in an airport in Philadelphia, spending my 5-hour layover awake and typing, so the flight to Charles DeGualle will pass behind heavy eyelids. Even after the great send-off meal, graciously prepared by my neighbors Kim and Dave Turnage in Raleigh, .. it was all still surreal to me on the drive up north. I am leaving again... this time I might not come back. Haha, I'll come back to that, it's too early for the deep stuff. I had literally packed my entire life, ... or (maybe the less dramatic and more accurate) the version of my life for the next seven months. I drove most the way and time passed quickly and as we crossed the border on I-87 and I began to notice the week-old snowdirt and the scarred/jagged rockhills passing by my window, ...I realized I was back home in New York. From Raleigh, when I think of my grandmother's house in Staatsburg, all those warm and fuzzy childhood feelings swell up around my chest. Pulling into the driveway those feelings were still there and still overwhelming, ...it was smiles everywhere greeting us that Sunday afternoon. Walking into that house as a 25 year-old man, part of me still feels like the 12 year-old boy who was raised by almost a dozen women that always lived conveniently close to me. I think some of my aunts see me less grown then others, nevertheless I am lucky. Citing a conversation I had a week later with my aunt MaryEllen, very few people in this world have what I have... the utterly complete and unconditional love of so many people, ... whose number one concern always seems to be my well-being. I always have and always will consider myself an extremely lucky son, grandson, nephew, and cousin. Even though I work the lively nightlife industry, I felt overwhelmed by the frenzied whirlwind that seems to occupy that house the four days I spend in Staatsburg. I was almost uncomfortable at the pace things had taken I didn't really get to relax as much as I wished. But I guess that is what the holidays are, a time to break good habits and eat so much you wonder if those jeans you bought ever really fit as well as you thought they did. With so many people visiting and in town for Caileigh's baptism Meghan and Victoria were bedding at the Laurentiev's, while Greg, (Meghan's boyfriend) and myself were relegated to the Brown's house. Note on the Brown's: That house is unrecognizable compared to when I saw it last, amazing planning and execution so far. Can't wait to see it further along. The next day Victoria and I found a gym (the judgement-free zone of Planet Fitness) and ran some errands before the evening baptism at St. Paul's. The sacrement was by none other than my uncle Father Rob and was a private affair, if you consider over thirty family members private. Dinner was two six-foot deli sandwichs created by specialist food service engineer Katie Laurentiev ;). The following day was spent between Staatsburg and the Brown's Poughkeepsie, going to the gym, wrestling tiny cousins, and visiting the Vanderbilt Mansion to take in the gorgeous panorama and frozen wind off the Hudson. That night we went to a local dive named Darby O'Gills in Hyde Park where I was to meet some old classmates from the good ol' Regina Coeli days. Ian MacGregor, Megan Baker, and Christine Rock all made it out for drinks and it was amazing to see everyone. My cousins Mykkii, Katie, and Christine joined us and we had great time catching up and sharing stories of what the hell we had been up to over the last 10 or so years. When we woke on New Year's Eve Day to three inches of snowfall I was satisfied. I had gotten what I came for. Citing Tete, I had "filled up" and was ready to start anew and refreshed. The drive to the city was uneventful until it came to finding a parking spot. Not an ideal time to drive into mid-town Manhattan, 4 p.m. on New Year's Eve, that is. Streets were being shut down left and right, and rivers of tourists blocked intersections. Mel was eaten dinner with Laurentiev's at a fancy burger joint named 5 Napkins, but jumped into Suburban and whipped it around like at true New York driver and found a spot in a lot in no time.

Exhausted I dared not to venture out into the freezing madness that was mid-town that night. Call me what you will but that is not my idea of a good time, not when I can see Time Square from Mel's 15th story apartment window. The company was MaryEllen, two of her friends Carla and Jen, Aunt Kathy, cousins Katie, Christine, and Sarah, my sister Meghan and Greg, and Victoria and myself. And we all shared champange and kisses at midnight, .... which are of course more cozy indoors and above freezing. At nearly 1 a.m. Meghan, Greg, Victoria, and myself made our way to a bar named the Irish Rogue roughly a block away from Mel's place at 43th and 9th. During our first round, a tall thin guy walks by the table and briefly makes eye contact with us and I recognize the guy. Victoria realizes it was Carson Daly, less then an hour after he finished the New Year's Countdown for NBC. The network's private party was going on at the the Irish Rogue second floor. It was a nice welcome to NYC event for North Carolina small-towner Greg, as well as for the rest of us. We had made it, ... we were in the city for New Year's Eve, ...a first for me and it was a great unforgettable night. Thanks MaryEllen. The next day's lunch was Thai food at Bangkok House, near Mel's, then a walk through the still ridiculously dirty and crowded Time Square to the packed Rockefeller Square. The photo ops continued at tourist stops at St. Patrick's Cathedral and Saks on Fifth Avenue. Then a stroll down to Grand Central Station to see off the cousins Katie, Christine, and Sarah and Aunt Kathy.

A quick subway ride down to Union Square later, we met MaryEllen and Therese for dinner at Blue Water Grill and it was amazing. I had blackened swordfish, and it was the best meal I've had on this trip. Thank you Therese for the wonderful dinner. Still reeling on the amazing dinner, Victoria had arranged us to meet one of her "best" friends out at Gotham Comedy Club, for the night's perfomance at 8 p.m. It was my first ever stand-up experience and was unbelievable. The first comic was from Staten Island, and his gimmick was that everyone said he looked like a cop, but not a cool cop, ... like a mean cop. Hahaha... well I guess comedy doesn't translate over email, you might of had to be there. There were five comics in all, one MC that was recognizable from a small Sopranos role, and 4 other's that each did 30 minute spots. Staten Island mean cop was followed by a Dave Chappelle look-a-like who did an amazing Obama impression. (Greg swears he recognized from some small movie role, and based on Greg's knowledge of bad comedies I believe him.) Obama wannabe was followed by Italian/Jewish girl who hated herself and everyone else. She forgot much of her routine, ... which was probably the funniest part of her act. The last guy was distantly recognizable, but whined about New York and his Jewish mother. Highlights were definetly the first two acts. Note on comedy clubs in New York: Going into the club I understood there was a $15 cover charge and a two drink minimum, what surprised me was my $8 Amstel Light bottles and my sister $14 G&T's, but hey... we were in NYC and on vacation so it didn't ruin the night, but it doesn't stop you from counting the number of Miller Lite I could of had at Stoolies.... haha. Or the 30-pack of Keystone Light for $11.99 in Hyde Park. Hahah.... disgusting. The next morning me and Victoria woke up and a decent hour and walked through mid-town to Central Park. After strangely running into her friends from the night before in Times Square, we entered at Columbus Circle and attempted to jog thru much of the park, stopping at all the appropriate photo ops of course. In the Ramble, a hilly forested areas in the center of the Park with ran into two Central Park Rangers, who get paid by the City of New York to birdwatch. Seriously, ... these guys seemed to have it made, and let me know they did have it made as they pointed out everything from the Redtailed Hawks to the many Tufted Titmouses, ... or is it Titmice. Anyways, these guys were really cool, and you could tell they really like their job. We were freezing so was they pointed toward the Central Park Boathouse, which was a restaurant and cafe on one of the park's many small lakes. After a cup of tea in the park and a jog back to mid-town through flurries, we did a bit of shopping.

Friday night's plan was MaryEllen local hangout spot an Irish pub named Dalton's the corner of 43rd and 9th. It was karaoke night which was kicked off in grand style by our waiter and MaryEllen's good friend Jacob Heal. Jacob is an asprining singer/songwriter and for a small guy has huge voice. Marc Cohn's, "Walking to Memphis," never sounded so good. I tipped back a couple Magner's, an Irish cider was cannot get in Raleigh, and the rest of the gang started in hard on the shots. It wasn't long before Greg was behind the mic, singing Alan Jackson or something named "Watermelon Crawl." Not much later I succumb to the peer pressure and crank out my finest rendition of "Possum Kingdom" by The Toadies. It was a great night and most everyone was in rare form. Apparently Carla starting buying tequila shots, so I wasn't surprised when she accidently left her camera in the women's room and we she went back to get it, it was no where to be found. Besides that, the night was great and ended late. As MaryEllen, Meghan, and Greg slept off their hangovers, ... Victoria and I crawled out of bed at the crack of noon to make to the ticket counter at the Phantom of the Opera. We bought tickets to the 2 p.m. show and grab some brunch before the start of it. Note on Phantom of the Opera: I've never been to a Broadway musical. I've never been to a musical. I've never been to a play. So this was a completely brand new and exciting experience for me. Phantom is probably the most popular musical in the world and getting to see it in the theater that was built for it. The singers were outstanding and didn't miss a note, the orchestra swelled and fell with amazing professionalism. I was extreme impressed with the quality of the acting and showmanship of the company. I am glad I went, hope to learn more in the future about this art that I know nothing about. I'll finish trip to NYC in the next blog and email. Here are some thoughts and books I've been reading lately. Stephen Clarke, "A Year in the Merde" - Fiction about a Brit living in Paris for work for one year. Hilarious English language perspective. Highly Recommended. Anthony Bourdain, Editor, "America's Best Travel Writers 2008" - I want to learn as much as I can about travel writing, so I got this to expand my understanding of that area of writing. Made of up great articles and excerpts from National Geographic, Travel + Leisure, Salon.com, and many more. I also want to leave you all with this clip of the Dr. Suess Book "Oh, the places you will go!" My neighbor Kim Turnage has recently graduated from nursing school. During her graduation party I came upon the book given to her as a gift from a thoughful friend. I had never read the book before, and being an extremely big fan of children's rhyming literature I had to read it. It struck surprisingly deep, and I wanted to share a couple choices passages. Maybe I just thought they applied to my situation.... but I think everyone can take some insight from the good Dr. and get something from it.

Opening Lines....

Congratulations!

Today is your day.

You’re off to Great Places!

You’re off and away! You have brains in your head.

You have feet in your shoes.

You can steer yourself any direction you choose.

You’re on your own. And you know what you know.

And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

Later in the book....

You'll get so confused

that you'll start in to race

down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace

and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space

headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.

The Waiting Place...

...for people just waiting.

Waiting for a train to go

or a bus to come, or a plane to go

or the mail to come, or the rain to go

or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow

or waiting around for a Yes or a No

or waiting for their hair to grow.

Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite

or waiting for wind to fly a kite

or waiting around for Friday night

or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake

or a pot to boil, or a Better Break

or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.

Everyone is just waiting.

Don't just wait, get out there!

Link to full narrative : http://schools.fsusd.k12.ca.us/schools/fhs/teacher/link/GigioC/Dreamweaver%202/Oh%20The%20Places%20you'll%20Go.htm Love you all, John