Funerals are tough. I just got back from four days in Arizona where the hot, dry air and seemingly endless sun made the visit that much more exhausting. It was wonderful, of course, to see all the visiting relatives, and the house was filled with laughter as we joked and caught up with the goings-on in each other's lives. We even made time for a trip to the driving range, and spent an evening putt-putting at miniature golf. Strange thing, this putt-putt golf. Yes, it was wonderful seeing everyone, and it is always great to take a few days off from work, but damn, saying goodbye is always so hard to do.

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Happy birthday, Bruce!

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Dumitru drove me from the airport today. Dumitru was in his fifties, an immigrant Romanian taxi driver who has lived in the U.S. for the past fourteen years. He left his Communist-ruled homeland as a tourist in 1987 and headed to Greece where he promptly applied for political asylum. After twelve months, America welcomed him, and five years later he received his prized citizenship to what he so proudly called home.

"You see, Petric, America is the land of opportunity," he said. I loved the way he said my name, the way it rolled off his tongue. "I escaped the Communists, and came here to this wonderful country. Where are you from?"

"I'm from the Caribbean. Trinidad."

"Ah. Trinidad and Tobago. Yes, I know of it. I have studied some geography. I have always wanted to visit the islands of the Caribbean. It is never winter there."

"Yes, it is warm, sometimes too hot." I smiled. "Do you go back to Romania often?"

"Yes." He paused. "I have been there a few times. As a visitor. But my home is America now. America, yes it is truly the land of opportunity. You see, Petric, I am a simple taxi driver. I have never visited your islands, but I have always wanted to go for a vacation there. But it is so hard to do it. Here in America, we must always work so hard."

"Yes," I agreed.

He glanced at me in the rear-view mirror. "But this country, this wonderful country, it is built upon the sweat of immigrants. Immigrants like you and me, my friend. The first generation Americans always have it hard. I came here with one suitcase and not a word of English."

"It must have been really tough for you, then, and you speak English so well now."

"Ah, thank you." He smiled. "All learned on my own. No classes, my friend. And yes, it was difficult. Very difficult. And it remains difficult. But I am happy to be here with the opportunity that I have. You see, I am a simple taxi driver, but I am a happy taxi driver. So many people come to America thinking they will be given everything on a silver platter. But it is not like that, my friend."

"Yes, I know that."

"You see, I know that it is hard work. And I accept it. I am willing to work hard because I made the choice to be here, and because I appreciate the freedom this country gives me. I am happy because I choose to work this way and I choose be happy. Not many people have these choices."

As we neared my destination, we chatted some more. I found out that Dumitru was trained as an engineer in Romania. He told me of the food there (Think of something like Italian food) and of his family he left behind. He was intelligent and well-read. And certainly happy. We should all look at the world through Dumitru-coloured glasses; it is truly amazing what we take for granted. It is when I speak with people like Dumitru that I am brought back to reality, that I become grounded. It is then that I realize what sacrifices my own parents made for me and how easy it is to become jaded with the material things we aspire for. As I paid the fare, I gave Dumitru two dollars more than I would have normally, and he was surprised.

"Thank you, thank you, Petric. Thank you, my friend." He reached out to shake my hand, and I felt very small as his large hands enveloped mine. I felt humbled.

"No, thank you, Dumitru," I said, "my friend."

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When Ernie asked his readers to comment on his new site design, many people wrote back afraid that his beloved cartoon caricature was being done away with. Bored this morning, I PhotoShopped a few of Ernie's photos from his site, and ended up with these. Can you find where the original photos appear on his site?

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Very cool. I just got a call from Manaf, a then-doctoral student with whom I did research as an undergraduate in college, and he told me that one of our papers was just accepted for publication. It was totally unexpected, since I last worked on this paper about two years ago! This really made my day today.

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Today is my last day in this office. Our company is moving to another building a few blocks away from here, and this weekend is my department's turn to be moved. And since I'm out of the office tomorrow, I have to finish packing by today. It's funny how things like this can put you in a nostalgic mood. One of my colleagues mentioned that it's like moving out of a college dorm, and that we just need some sort of melancholic soundtrack in the background. Just a small footnote in my career, I suppose, but it's fodder for nostalgia.

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Yes, kids, it's "Fun with Palindromes Day" today. One of my colleagues forwarded this to me earlier this morning:

Now this is fine in some countries, but in the U.S. where the date convention is to put the month first and then the date, this doesn't work quite as well; we'd end up instead with 20:02, 02/20, 2002--still a palindrome, but not quite as neat. So, Marcel, I guess the world won't end in the U.S.

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My sister's mother-in-law was a woman I called Amoo. Amoo moved to Trinidad from her native China long before I was born, and lived in the house across the road. I always thought of her as both a second mother and a second grandmother, a wonderful ever-smiling matron who called us over to her house whenever she baked bread. And her bread, oh how wonderful the smell.

Amoo kept my mom company, both of them being the only Chinese-speaking women in the tiny village where I grew up. She moved to America many years ago and took her wonderful bread and bread-smells with her. Amoo championed my cause when I came out to my mom last year, and helped me much more than she ever realized by talking to my mom and helping her to come to terms with having a gay son. "Don't worry," she would tell my mom, "there's nothing wrong with that."

Amoo was beautiful, Amoo was strong. Amoo had a tough life, a wonderful life, and raised a beautiful family that I think of as my own. Amoo passed away this morning. We will all miss Amoo terribly.

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While rummaging through some old junk in my apartment last week, I found this little note I had written to Greg over three years ago. Our relationship was barely six weeks old then, and we spent much of our time sending silly e-mail messages back and forth at work. I remember writing this during a particularly stressful few days at work, daydreaming of things other than what I should have been doing. I feel a bit awkward posting this, but I think it's important to remember times like these. You know, to keep us young.

Like Francis said, aren't the first throes of love heroic? Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.

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"Perdone mí, señor. Si usted pudiera darme un minuto de su tiempo..."

I looked up. A young woman, no older than twenty and in what seemed to be the second trimester of a pregnancy was standing directly in front of me. I was on the subway on the way home tonight when she came up to me, this girl with the denim Farmer Browns and the heavy gold necklace and heavy gold earrings. She had walked into my car just as the train left the Jackson Heights station, and by then I was one of the sleepy half-dozen passengers on the nearly empty section. I pulled the earphone out of my right ear, and the Indigo Girls, oblivious to my little encounter, sang "Prince of Darkness" into my left. My place is of the sun and this place is of the dark, they sang.

"I'm sorry..." I said.

Her heavy eyelids and stunted gait betrayed heavy drug use, and her dull, glazed eyes stared vacantly beyond me as she recited in monotone.

"...me gustaría preguntarle si usted pudiera darme algún cambio para ayudarme..." she continued.

I don't know when I noticed life was life at my expense...

"...but I don't understand you."

No one can convince me we aren't gluttons for our doom...

"Excuse me, sir. If you could spare me one minute of your time..." She began again, immediately and in perfectly enunciated English, her voice heavy and slightly slurred, her steady gaze unbroken.

Maybe there's no haven in this world for tender age...

"I would like to ask you if you could spare me some change to help me..."

I stared straight into her eyes, trying to imagine her sober and cleaned up. It's always such a pity when I see people begging for money. Especially when they're as young and potentially productive as this young woman was. It angers me so when I see how much these people waste their youth and their lives, getting pregnant and laying aside their dignity, begging for spare change to support their drug habits. It's times like these I struggle between wanting to give them the money they need to turn their lives around and wanting to shake some sense into them. It's times like these I cry on the inside.

I will not be a pawn for the prince of darkness any longer.

"Sorry," I said.

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It's Chinese New Year! Happy Year of the Horse. Also, happy Carnival Tuesday!

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Happy Carnival Monday. Today is the first of the two Carnival days in Trinidad, the first twenty-four of the forty-eight hours of a raucous, song-and-dance-filled joyous celebration that represents the culmination of the Carnival season. It's times like this that make me just a wee bit homesick.

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Trinidad actually sent three athletes to the Winter Olympics! And of course, NBC cut to a commercial during the Parade of Nations exactly when we were marching into the stadium. Arrrgghhh... It never fails. We're simply too third world to be aired on television, I suppose. At least they mentioned Peter Minshall, who was responsible for the kinetic sculptures at the opening ceremonies. And it was nice of NBC to mention that he's from Trinidad. I got goosebumps when I heard that. Wow, they mentioned Trinidad on tv. I wonder if that'll make the news back home.

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Happy birthday Ron!

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At the Amtrak counter yesterday, a hyperactive and rakishly thin man ran up to the teller. He glanced at her and smiled cheerfully.

"Hi there, how are you, nice day today, how are you doing, busy station, huh?"

The teller surveyed him, twirling a pen slowly between her fingers and looking extraordinarily unimpressed. "Can I help you?" she said.

"Well yes, I was thinking of taking the very next train out to Boston, and well, I thought maybe I'd check to see when the next train to Boston was, and how much it would cost because I'm visiting some family there and I've never taken the train to Boston and I was thinking that maybe I'd visit them because I haven't seen them in so long."

The teller stared at him, uninspired.

"And you know so I thought that maybe, well I was thinking..."

"Over a hundred dollars. Acela Express."

The man fidgeted nervously with his luggage. "Oh wow, that’s a bit of money, don't you think? I guess for that price it must be a really comfortable ride up there, right? I mean it must be a long ride there, because when I drive it takes me six hours, and well I was just thinking..."

"I wouldn't take the train there. I'd fly."

There was an awkward moment of silence as they both stared at each other.

"Oh. You'd... fly?"

"Yeah. Can I help the next customer?"

The poor man looked suitably confused as he disappeared into the crowd, an air of dejected resignation around him. So much for inspiring consumer confidence.

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I spent the day in Wilmington today, where we have an office. On the way from the train station to the office, my colleague and I had an interesting conversation with the taxi driver, an older gentleman with a black fedora who was finishing his lunch.

Moral of the story? If you go to one of these here "rock shows," watch out for the girls with the sneakers smelling like cheese. They're likely to end up on some talk show someday, and sooner or later will change your life.

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What's up with the senior citizenry poking and whacking at things as hard as they can?

I get home this evening and hop into the elevator in the lobby, and there's this frail-looking older couple--seemingly well into their seventies--already in there, coming up from the basement with their freshly folded laundry. Another lady gets in with the three of us, and she's cradling a tiny dog in her arms. I quite often see this lady: she usually carries her tiny white-haired dog in her arms, and the dog always has its tongue sticking out of its mouth in a funny way. Don't ask me why; it's probably one of those things tiny white-haired dogs do when they get older. This dog looks like it's getting up in its years and is wheezing gently as it breathes. The older gentleman looks at the dog and then looks at its owner. Then at the dog again. And then at the owner. He pokes at it in the leg. Poke, poke.

"That's a pretty fierce dog you got there," he says, grinning.

"Uh, yeah, she's pretty old," the owner says. She is unamused, and gently turns away to protect the dog.

"Yeah, looks like one good guard dog to me," he says. And he laughs, poking the dog again in the belly as the elevator arrives at its owner's destination. The dog lets out a small whimper as the man pokes at it a third time. Poke, poke. The lady and her dog exit the elevator in a hurry.

The man turns his attention to me.

"Say, you look like you're dressed for motorcycle riding," he says. He punches me in the shoulder.

"Uh?"

"I bet you have a motorbike." Poke, poke, punch.

"Uh, yeah, I do, actually."

"Let me guess... A Suzuki. No, you look like a Harley!" He grins at me in glee.

"Oh, no, I've got a little Beemer."

"Ah, the best of the lot!" He lets out a raucous laugh and whacks me once more in the shoulder with all the strength he can muster. I don't see what's so funny, but I laugh anyway. The elevator door opens and I quickly escape into the corridors, nursing my bruised shoulder and trying to look like it didn't hurt.

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I've posted a few photos from the St. John trip here. It's a great way to relive the trip.

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The Patriots just won the Super Bowl. I suppose that should mean something to me, but I'll claim foreign ignorance and say that I don't understand American football (Article 27(b), Exemption 5.1: "Foreigners are not required to understand American sports"). Well I don't. Even if I read Super Bowl for the Clueless. I need help for watercooler conversation tomorrow: should I be happy that the Patriots won, or should I be upset that the Rams didn't? Either way, the commercials were fun.

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Too late, I couldn't stop myself. I made an impulse buy and got the iPod. Well, no one can say I didn't try. I circled the Apple store several times, trying to convince myself that I didn't really need it. Not just yet, at least. I could wait, maybe get it online. Maybe the wait would stop me from spending. I failed miserably... But now, as I cradle the silver and white body of my new toy, I can say it's one of the most satisfying failures I've ever had. One thousand songs in my pocket. Ahhh...

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Just a quick blog from the new Apple Store at the Palisades Mall. Very cool store, nicely designed and very welcoming. Oh no... I'm getting the urge to buy something. Someone help me!!!

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We took the bikes out for a quick spin today, just to warm up the engines and keep the batteries happy. Then we decided to catch a movie, and ended up getting tickets to Amélie at the--quite appropriately French--Paris Theatre across the Plaza Hotel and Central Park.

We parked our bikes near the ticket booth at five o'clock and I walked up to the lady attending.

"Two tickets for the seven-thirty show, please."

She looked at me all bundled up in motorcycle riding gear, my helmet wrapped around my face like the shell of a bizarre human burrito, and smiled. I tried to smile back, but my cheeks were immobile, pressed firmly into the helmet. If you've ever seen someone try to smile with a helmet on, you'll know how funny I looked. The ticket-lady burst into laughter as she handed the tickets to me.

"A little tip: make sure you get here early. Full house tonight. Seven o'clock or earlier, if you can."

"Thanks for the tip."

"Make sure you stay warm. And I don't think you'd need that helmet." She laughed again--a pleasant, lilting laugh.

The movie was wonderful, richly textured and beautifully done. I definitely recommend it, if for nothing but to gaze at Audrey Tautou's hauntingly beautiful eyes.

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"No you're not."

"Yes I am."

"Prove it. Say something lesbionic."

"Home Depot."

Did Rosie O'Donnell just come out on Will & Grace last night? There is a lot of speculation and rumour that her soon-to-be-released book will reveal her true colours. That would be so wonderful. Either way, she's a beautiful person, and we love her. What is it about Rosie that gay men love her so much?

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