There is a certain orgiastic pleasure in shredding documents. It's a strange, almost perverse pleasure, an addictive gratification not unlike that from popping bubble wrap one plump bubble at a time. Pop. Pop. Pop.

There must be some of you who know what I mean.

Greg and I started some spring cleaning this weekend. Most of yesterday we spent tossing out years of accumulated paperwork: credit card applications, bank statements, phone bills, electricity bills, paystubs. We threw open the windows and let the fresh April air into the apartment, and then sat there in a corner of the living room, documents in hand, feeding the shredder and watching the strings of paper confetti being churned out at the end. Whirr. Whirr. Whirr.

Every once in a while, the tiny shredder would decide that he had had enough and would play dead. We fed him for hours on end as much as we could, as much as he could take, and he would complain. That's too many sheets, there. I'm rated for only five sheets, and that looks like six. Stop! We'd steadfastly ignore him, testing his limits and listening to his little engine strain to keep up. And every once in a while, sometimes mid-shred, his little engine would cut off and refuse to budge. That's it. I've had enough. No more until dinnertime, thankyouverymuch. I'm full.

The first time he cut off, we thought we had killed him. Little did we know he was just playing dead. We headed over to the neighbourhood Staples to look for his replacement, but there were none that we liked, and so we headed back home to continue with the cleaning. Lo and behold, our little shredder was ready to go again. I'm not dead, I'm not dead. Don't throw me away. I'm alive! Poor little kiddo, we continued our massive shredding effort, and he tried to keep up. But before the day was over, he had shut off several more times, far more exhausted than he had ever been in his little shredder life.

He's resting today, the little shredder. And though we've still a few things here and there for him to take care of, he'll probably never have a workout as he did yesterday.

There is a certain orgiastic pleasure in shredding documents. It's a strange, almost perverse pleasure, an addictive gratification. There must be some of you who know what I mean.

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Charlie is being high-maintenance today. He's being so more than usual, trying to get his mother to feed him and his father to play with him, making whiny little chirping noises and flying off in a huff when his parents ignore him. His parents have reason to ignore him today though: the two eggs they've been nursing for the past couple weeks, the two eggs they've protected from the cold and the rain and from Charlie's clumsy feet, they hatched today.

Charlie now has two siblings.

The parents have been fortifying their new nest since last month's avalanche episode, each taking turns to bring a twig or three before switching egg-sitting roles with the other. The mother would spend each night with the eggs, Charlie at her side all night long and ogling the curious treasures whenever he could. The father would arrive around six-thirty every morning to sit for a while as the mother stretched her wings. When Charlie eventually learned to fly, some ten or twelve days ago, he would totter off the edge of the roof, flapping his wings and hovering for half a second before he took off, his confidence clearly growing with each try. Now he's an old pro at the flying bit, leaving and returning as he pleases throughout the day.

Today I looked at the mother and noticed that she was shifting about uncomfortably. I watched for a while longer before realizing that it was because the first chick had hatched! Sometime in the early afternoon, the second chick arrived, and the mother flew off with the last bit of the eggshell remnant, depositing it midair before making a U-turn back to the newborns.

Charlie knows something is amiss, though. He's realized that his parents aren't paying him much attention anymore and that today they've been especially distracted. He's been chirping more today than on other days, yelling and stomping his feet about as he eats his birdseed. Me! Me! Me! Play with meeee, he yells. But his parents ignore him. They steadfastly and deliberately ignore Charlie and his little tantrums and his little pleas for attention. Today our little Charlie is no longer the baby of the family.

Poor, poor Charlie Pigeon.

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The early days of calendar spring bring a certain finality to winter's end. Daylight stretches farther and farther into the recesses of night, and Mother Nature becomes increasingly moody as the seasons change over to balmier days. In Vermont the ground has begun to soften and thaw, releasing into the still-chilly air the earthy smells of a land stirring from deep sleep. Spring heralds in the new.

We spent the long weekend up in Vermont, glad for the extra day to recover from a rough week at work and I from an even rougher Thursday night out on the town with my colleagues. We nodded winter goodbye with a last day of skiing on Saturday at Okemo, zipping up and down the melting slush until our legs burned, and then packed away our skis for the season. Sunday brought a late but brilliant sun, and we rushed to take the motorcycles out for the season's first run. Back and forth we went, down dusty old Town Farm Road and to the little town, and back, just enough to top off the gas and feel the road and wind and fresh, clean air.

Away with the skis, out with the motorbikes. Spring, certainly and finally, is upon us.

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The line to the men's room is longer than the one for the women's. That's what someone says during intermission at the show last night. And it certainly looks that way, with the procession doubling back to the entrance of the basement at the Golden Theatre. But it's moving faster than the women's and I am thankful.

I am there but not really there, shuffling along and thinking about the first act and the naked puppets and the songs about life's purpose when I see him out of the corner of my eye, watching me. Is it someone famous, a celebrity? I turn to him and he smiles as our eyes meet, ever so briefly, and he disappears into the crowded room.

What a beautiful man. Where did he go?

I am right. The men's line moves much more quickly than the women's, and I am heading back to my seat before too long. I can't wait for the second act, the show is so engaging.

Up the stairs I go, sauntering as lightly as I dare. And then I see him again, coming back down the stairs towards the men's room. His isn't a face to easily forget, so striking are his features, so impossibly intense the gaze of his soft-brown eyes. He is with a friend now, and he smiles as we pass each other on the staircase. This time I smile back, and I continue walking, suddenly flustered by his attention and even more so at my brazen response.

I keep walking and dare not look back. What did he look like? My pulse is racing. The beautiful man I just passed, the one who smiled at me, who was he? He was in his mid-thirties, I'm almost sure, with strong, broad shoulders and a shaven head with just a hint of light-brown peach fuzz. He took care of himself, certainly, I could tell by the effortless way he wore his clothes. He was oh so beautiful.

Then I realize I am on the wrong side of the theater. I am terrible with directions and I am on the left side; I should be on the right. I turn around to correct my mistake and suddenly, more suddenly than I am prepared for, he is there. The beautiful man is there in front of me.

"Hi," he says.

"Oh, hi."

"I just thought I'd say hello. Introduce myself." He extends his hand and grins broadly. "I'm Ed."

"Uhm, I'm Patrick." I extend my own hand and he pulls me ever so gently into his body. I feel my knees go weak and my face becomes flush. I don't know what to say. "Enjoying the show?" I offer, weakly.

"Oh yes, it's terrific." He hasn't let go of me, and I feel the tender flesh of his palm pressing gently into mine, my fingers over the soft ripple of the veins at the back of his hand. He is staring directly into my eyes. I am unable to break free of his gaze. "What do you think of it?" He cocks his head ever so slightly and raises an eyebrow, still smiling.

"It's hilarious. Tremendous fun."

He grins again and his eyes suddenly dance. "Well, I've got to use the men's room," he says. "Too crowded the first time around, you know." He softens his grip on my hand and then presses it again, this time more firmly. "I will see you after the show," he says. He leans closer to me. "I will see you soon, Patrick."

"Uhm, see you, Ed," I reply.

He releases my hand and slowly retreats down the stairs. I can still feel the flush on my face and the ghost of his hand pressed firmly into mine as I stand there in shock. Just before he reaches the end of the stairs, he turns once more and smiles a beautiful smile. And then, just like that, he disappears. Ed, the beautiful man disappears, finally and forever, into the crowd.

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Two days ago, the both of us sitting and twiddling our thumbs:

We've got tickets for tonight. And despite our lethargy, we're excited to see it. Happy birthday, hon. Love you lots.

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The old man sits tonight on the Queensbound E, shoulders hunched forward and head buried deep in the New York Post Wonderword that lies folded on his lap. He searches methodically through the maze of letters, circling each one with a quiet delight as he unearths the words on the list at the bottom of the puzzle. As with most everyone in the city today, he is tired. The passengers around him, their bodies long surrendered to the sway of the train pay no attention to him. Then slowly, not more than five minutes into the ride home, just about the time when the doors close at the deserted Ely Avenue station, they begin to watch him.

One by one, they peer over his shoulder. The tall and gregarious Scandinavian with his Asian girlfriend and her canary-yellow gloves, they grow quiet, clutching each other as they watch. The young black woman with the uncomfortable shoes, the shoes that keep her shifting back and forth, she folds away her article on Beyonce and Solange and she watches. The short Latino man, the one with the too-large farmer browns and the hooded black sweatshirt with "I Love New York" printed neatly across the front, he too watches.

We all stand quiet around the old man and his puzzle, watching carefully his little fingers circle the letters as he searches for the hidden words. If he is bothered by his audience he keeps it to himself, but I doubt he realizes how we have trained our eyes onto him, so completely absorbed he is in his task. We are all tired, we are all inexplicably spellbound. If he looks up, he would find five pairs of eyes studying his performance, and our gazes would scatter hurried like birds in a thousand directions. But all throughout the twenty-minute ride, he never looks up. He keeps searching and circling and searching and circling. The train rocks back and forth, back and forth as it carries us all home, and the old man keeps hunting and hunting, searching passionately for the words he knows are buried in there.

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I'm in the city this weekend, a relatively relaxing weekend, the first weekend in months where I don't need to be out of town, a weekend where we are miraculously free of piles and piles of guests clamouring all over the apartment and waging personal wars over the bathroom.

The good news: Right now on this gray and overcast Sunday--a slow Sunday by most counts--I'm dining on a delightful handmade portobello-and-olive ravioli drenched in warm truffle oil and walnut sauce, with an appetizer of mussels sautéed in white wine and fresh garlic a wonderful complement to the entrée. The herbs, the sauces, the spices, all in perfect proportion and prepared delectably to perfection in the way that only a New York City restaurant can demand. One can never be too fancy when it comes to lazy Sunday lunches.

The bad news: My lazy Sunday lunch isn't lazy. I'm eating here at the office. Yes, at work on a Sunday. Again.

Ply me with pity points, someone, please.

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