New York, NY
While most of the East Coast studied the weather forecast with subtle terror and trepidation, I was filled with glee. Granted, snow storms are easier to deal with when you live in a city and travel by car is not a necessity, but the beauty and peacefulness of snow is intoxicating. As soon as the first flakes fell, I set out to explore the canyons. 
New York, NY
It's been awhile, but at the urging of friends and family, I've put together my annual Christmas list. Feel free to purchase any or all of these items for me. Thanks!
Areaware If Mode Bicycle
Smith Venue Helmet
Stowe Tickets
Snowbird Tickets
This Townhouse
Williams-Sonoma Handtowels
A Job
A Selection Off My Amazon Wish List
Donation to 826NYC
The Art of Tim Burton
Ferrari California
iPhone 3Gs
Nordica Speedmachine 120
Salomon XW Fury +Z14
New York, NY
With the ground covered in fallen leaves and the chill of Winter knocking on my window each morning, I figured now was as good a time as any to put some pictures up from Autumn. It should be noted I didn't take all of these pictures. Lindsey, Tim, and Patrick deserve much of the credit.
New York, NY
The game is over. You win. Our relationship has lasted longer than that of anyone I've ever dated. This is odd seeing as I've attempted to kill you on several occasions. I've left you to starve. I've left without saying goodbye. I've forced you to swim in your own feces. What's more, you're constantly in an environment in which another creature, whose soul purpose in life outside of eating, sleeping, and licking her girl parts, is to eat you alive. And yet you remain.
So Ripley, after three long years, I congratulate you on making it this far. Darwin would be proud. But seriously, if you're still around for the fourth year, we're headed into the bathroom for the best water park ride ever invented.
New York, NY
I meet Tilo Gomez at his place of business; 604 feet above the Hudson River. Wearing a blaze orange vest trimmed with a day-glo green border, it's easy to spot him behind the gray-blue grating of the bridge tower. Leaning against the metal ties, his eyes are pointed out across the span toward New Jersey. He turns his head slightly when I advance, holding out his hand sideways though remaining vigilant to his duty.
With "security" stamped across the back of his vest, I wonder what he's actually protecting.
"There's ten or so a year. That's the number that actually hit the water. Most weeks we'll get one or two people who stop and look out at the skyline a bit too long. That's when we start the long walk out toward the middle of the bridge." Tilo's shoulders sink in the unmistakable indication that "the walk" is the worst part of his job.
Like all suspension bridges, the George Washington Bridge shifts and sways as it's load and the wind currents change. This movement is especially noticeable closer to the ends of the bridge. Tilo doesn't seem to notice it anymore. He's been working security on the bridge for the past three years, before that he'd worked for a private security company guarding children at a public high school in the Bronx. He does not know the exact numbers of "jumpers" he's talked back down over the years, a term I find confusingly used.
"This gig is much better," he says, turning his head toward Inwood and over to the Bronx. "I live up here, so the commute is easier." Tilo was born here, and grew up just off Dyckman Street. His parents came over from the Dominican Republic, a place whose name invokes a large smile from Tilo. He is bilingual, and his Hispanic heritage is reflected in his accent. His voice is quiet, but certain. It could be the ten people a year, but there's a reflection and a purpose to each word he sounds out. They fall off his tongue with a silent prayer affixed to them. As if there's always the possibility that those gentle tones might be the last ones someone may hear.
Tilo laughs when I ask why he doesn't carry a gun. "No, there's no need. You don't pull a gun on a jumper." I realize the stupidity of this question and subconsciously look out and down toward the river. As if to make up for my error, I ask what he'd do if a terrorist wanted to blow up the bridge. He points to his walkie-talkie indicating that would be his first line of defense. "Plus," he says with a knowing smile, "this sucker was built really well. Stuffing a backpack full of explosives would only kill the person wearing it and flake some paint off the side of the bridge."
We walk out on the bridge and I ask him about his family. He tells me about his older brother who is a patent attorney downtown. "He's traveled all over the world. He loves to talk about it, and his feelings and ideas on politics. Mostly I just sit and listen. It's him showing off for himself. Making him feel better about the choices he's made."
"And the choices you've made?" I ask. "How does he feel about you up here on the bridge?"
"He thinks I'm wasting my time. Wasting my life. But he doesn't understand the feeling you get when someone steps back over the guard rail and gives you a hug for saving their life. That's something you can't bottle or get from a tour guide. And no college book can adequately explain that feeling. It's genuine."
We're in the middle of the bridge now, the green waters of the Hudson rush past the submerged rocks of Jeffery's Hook. The River looks both serene and menacing.
"Do you ever get jealous of your brother and his travels?"
Looking back toward the Manhattan tower, Tilo takes a moment and smiles "No, that walk is the longest trip I ever want to make."
New York, NY
The GPS estimated time of arrival is cruelly accurate. Its algorithms and recalibrations directly affected my mood. With salt water stains scalloped on the windshield, we drove through the dunes, past the crashing waves, and ultimately farther away from the ocean. 6:24pm. We'd be back in the city at exactly that time. Gripping the wheel, I felt like I was in a car commercial, skipping around turns, turning the sea grass into a haze of green. I expected a helicopter to dance over head, grabbing choice shots of my exceptional driving technique as I sped home. This drive would be easy.
My grip grew tighter on the wheel when the GPS's arrival time hit 6:30pm. We were stopped behind a Honda Pilot which had at least five bikes stapled to the back of it. The GPS nor my iPhone would give me an indication of the traffic on the road. It was Labor Day, and I expected this. 7:12pm. I longed for the first three miles of the drive. They'd been so fun. So quick. We'd gone a total of 12 miles in 45 minutes. Surely this was the worst of it.
The wave had been big. I knew this as I paddled in its trough, waiting for it to lift me onto the crest. I'd calculated the advance perfectly. Shoving me down the wall in an explosion of thunder and wash, I expected this to be an awesome sight for everyone on land. I hoped my hair looked good. The girls playing paddleball on the beach would surely stop to see this man best nature in a display of power and skill. I'd have to remember to bring a pen down to the beach later in the day to sign the requisite autographs. There was, however, a slight miscalculation. I'd started off too far up on the board. When the wave crashed, it flipped the back of the board up, tossing me forward and underwater. Flipping and turning through the turbulent water, the first thing to hit was my lower back. I twisted violently left, unsure of which way was up. My head hit the sand second, the wave using it as a pivot point to toss my body feet first toward the beach. Still underwater, I felt the crush of water sitting on my chest. I don't remember how I made it to the surface, let alone how I had the strength to stand up. I recall vividly that I couldn't breathe, and a mother playing with her child on the beach looked at me with concern. My head hurt, I couldn't find my breath, and I struggled toward dry land.
Sitting on the sand with my dignity expelled with each troubled breath, Lindsey came running toward me from the surf. Gathering whatever wits I'd had left, I told her I was fine, but I'd better sit the next few swells out. Grabbing my board, I walked back to our beach chairs with my other hand nursing my sore lower back.
Sitting in this traffic, not moving, my back started to throb. This would be a long and laborious crawl to the finish of summer. It took us three hours to move 50 miles. Breaking free of the traffic, our estimated time of arrival was registering at a precise 8:29pm. Letting go of safety, and concern for Lindsey, I had one single goal: to get that number down by speeding like an asshole.
This was a summer of living on the edge, loss, excitement, and love. In between golf swings, burning boats, jet skis, and small plane rides, the summer unexpectedly became a classic. And while we crawled along the highway, it became clear that it wasn't going to die quickly.
We arrived back in the city at 8:24pm. I'd shaved an awesome five minutes off our goal. With a sore back and a mind scrambled by hours of driving, I climbed the stairs up to my apartment and crumbled into my bed. With windows wide open, the last few breezes of summer danced around my room reminding me they'd be back soon, and with a brand new summer to set their rhythms by.
New York, NY
We continue to crank out episodes of 3 Chords & the Truth. They've been getting better and better, and if you have a few minutes to kill, they might be worth checking out.
And for those of you who are fans of outtakes, we put together a short reel of some of the random things we discuss before (and after) each taping.
