New York's Finest

As I was exiting the subway at 43rd and 8th Avenue, a young boy stood at the top stair crying and wining. He did not want to move.

A moment later, I could see why.

A mounted policeman's horse was standing a few feet from the entrance, and a small cluster of New York City children were gathered around admiring the animal.

At one moment, the horse made a big movement, such as lifting its neck from the ground to shake it high in the air. The children, who looked likely to be a difficult-to-impress street smart group, were awstruck and delighted.

The policeman was answering their questions with a big grin. He clearly enjoyed entertaining them. It was a joy to hear their childish laughter as my heels clicked down the street.

Gym Pass

As I walked up the subway stairs at 53rd and 7th Avenue, I received a text from my dear friend. He informed me that he got tickets to the Miami City Ballet performance that night, and would meet me at the bar during intermission.

This is the grown up version of passing a note in class to make plans to meet by the gym soda machine between first and second periods. It thrills me now as much as it did in high school.

Another friend, an abstract painter, made plans to see the ballet with me. I admire her work profusely and am intrigued by her astute and unusual perspective on arts and events. It is a treat to spend time with her.

We saw two older pieces choreographed by Balanchine: "Symphony in Three Movements" and "La Valse." The evening closed with the fantastic "In the Upper Room" choreographed by Twyla Tharp.

Each time I see dance performances, I am struck by the young ages of the dancers. If the quality of the performance wasn't superb, I would mistake it for a high school production. This probably is a testament to my own advancing age.

I also find myself pondering the differences among all of the perfect physiques. All of them have been trained in the same way for the same purpose, yet genetics has formed their muscles in different ways. All of them must have about the same body fat ratio, yet some are lean, sinewous, and bony while others are more bulky with more visible muscle.

A variety in body development was particularly unusual in this ballet troupe because it is not diverse. It surprised me that a group based in Miami appeared to include only a few Latinos. I didn't see a single African-American on stage.

Alex Wong was outstanding. His leaps were spectacular. He hovered in the air. One is accustomed to seeing the special effect used in karate films of freezing a jump kick and changing perspective. Wong seemed to bring that effect to the stage.

At the end of the performance, the dancers took a bow with the ballet founder Edward Villella and choreographer Twyla Tharp (still lithe and beautiful at 67). I noticed that she had her arm around Alex Wong but only held the hands of the other dancers. He must be a universal favorite.

The costumes and sets for these dances were very simple. "Symphony in Three Movements" is an older piece with the traditional movements, but it is also quite athletic. "La Valse" was more typical traditional ballet. "In the Upper Room" was an energetic fusion of modern dance in ballet with jerky, mechanic motions and asymetrical movements that seemed unbalanced but allowed each dancer to retain equilibrium.

It was fun to meet during each intermission with my friends to discuss the dances. My dear friend is an avid arts fan, and has seen these ballets before. He pointed out several young dancers among the bar crowd. They looked like average high school students. If I had not been told that they were principal dancers in the New York City Ballet, I would never have guessed that they hid highly trained physiques under those jeans and slouchy sweaters.

The Difference a Day Makes

I am up late at night worrying about what I will do when I am laid off. What should I do next? Where will I live? When should I give up and move out of New York? It isn't an exaggeration to say I am terrified about my economic prospects.

The country is in an awful mess. My office had another 10% staff reduction a couple of weeks ago, and I suspect the lay offs will continue. The whole publishing industry is dying, so there are practically no job prospects for unemployed publishing professionals.

It is bizarre that under such circumstances, I am stirred by an event that doesn't effect me directly.

I was not an Obama supporter. I backed Hillary because, as a former Washington lobbyist, I knew she was a brilliant politician and I thought he was too inexperienced to be an effective president.

Yet, I could hardly focus on anything but the inauguration today. If I began to even ponder the transition that would take place, I got teary.

The whole office stopped to watch the proceedings on television. I felt foolish bringing a tissue with me to the lobby, and then watched half of my colleagues cry openly and share a big box of tissues.

I couldn't understand what was making me feel so emotional.

Seeing an African-American assume the presidency proves profound changes can happen in the U.S. Seeing an unapologetic liberal garner so much support leads me to believe things will get better. If McCain had won, I assume he would continue the horrid policies that led to this crisis. I would have no hope for recovery.

The expression on George W. Bush's face as he walked through the Capital crypt told a story I was eager to see come to fruition. In the past he had proudly claimed that he did not reflect on or feel regret for his actions. I found this boast deeply disturbing because it shut out hope that he would recognize the harm he caused or feel remorse for it.

As Bush moved toward the inaugural platform, he wore the expression of someone who had come to a dark realization. It appears that during the inauguration he finally realized how much people despise him, his policies, and his effect on the country.

I didn't hear it when I watched the ceremony, but I read in newspaper coverage that the crowd of two million people were loudly booing and hissing as he and Chaney stepped onto the platform. A moment later, the record-breaking large crowd was chanting "O-bam-a" as the president-elect entered the stage.

You could tell by the look on Bush's face that he was bracing under the rebuke. He is a man who prides himself on being liked, and he was just dissed by two million people in one of the most watched live events aired on media outlets around the world.

What is at issue isn't simply the rebuke of a person. It is the wholesale repudiation of his philosophy and policies. For eight years he and his ideological brethren have had free reign to test their ideas -- deregulation, markets managing themselves, trickle down economics, hawkish aggression, indulgence of short-sided gains -- and they have brought this country near to ruination.

It took a while to figure it out, but I realized the source of my tears was profound relief.

Reclaiming Pride

I had a wrecked bathroom to clean. The ceiling began sagging months ago, and it finally fell in two weeks ago. The repair was about as messy as the ceiling crashing down.

I thought I would listen to the We Are One concert while cleaning. Instead, I was glued to the computer screen for the entire concert. I don't have a television, so I watched online.

Before the concert started, my throat was tight with oncoming tears. Seeing the crowd at the decorated Lincoln Memorial made real the big transfer of power about to happen.

It surprised me that I was so emotional. The songs were mostly standards and I tend to regard celebrities as uninteresting. Yet, seeing Bruce Springsteen perform "The Rising" with a full gospel choir before Lincoln's statue made me choke up. It set the tone. This country has been through eight hellish years and now we are on the road to recovery.

Performance after performance emphasized the things I love about this country. Things that are discussed but discounted, such as diversity, plurality, culture, and tolerance. I love that I live in a country with such a rich musical culture. Americans watching the inauguration of a leader in France, Russia, China, or Brazil would most likely not be able to hum along to the tunes sung in celebration of those leaders. American music is popular world wide. I suspect most foreigners would recognize at least a third of the songs played at this concert.

I love that much of the music popular in this country has been made by disenfranchised and impoverished people -- from slaves and farm workers to rappers and American Idol winners. I loved seeing a gay men's choir sing with Josh Grobin and Broadway star via Trinidad Heather Headley. I loved that country superstar Garth Brooks was backed by a group of beaming, energetic teenagers that represented just about every race. I love that he generously gave one of those teenagers a moment in the spotlight.

U2s performance summed it up for me. Here were four men that grew up poor in Dublin, Ireland. At the inauguration ceremony of our country's first African-American president they played their hopeful song about Martin Luther King, Jr. and nonviolence on the very steps where MLK delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech. Bono basically told the audience that he was proud of America for this achievement. That the world would once again look upon the United States with respect.

I realized at that moment that this inauguration marks this country's shift from being an international disgrace to being the pride of the world. Although this country is in the grip of a crisis, it feels is as if we are emerging mindfully from a dark age into a renaissance.

Appearances

As I was walking down 23rd street today, a woman stopped me and started speaking to me in a foreign language. When she paused, I told her I didn't understand what she was saying.

She looked puzzled, then pointed to her head. One of the words she said sounded like "Rooskie."

At this moment, I realised that she thought I was Russian because I was wearing my big fur hat.

She said in English "F train" and "Coney Island." I walked her to the F stop entrance that was a few feet away, but poorly marked.

It is intriguing to learn how I am perceived by others and the basis of assumptions that are made. This is the first time I have been mistaken for a Russian.

Now that I think about it, the hat was made by a Russian furrier on West 28th and 7th Avenue. Perhaps he left a Russian imprint on me.

To Be Free

There is something about New York City that creates an environment in which people feel free to be themselves, and it is wonderful to witness. It makes me happy to see people enjoy this freedom.

It snowed heavily this morning. As I walked to the subway (5 degrees F with windchill) an older couple ahead of me burst into song about the joy of snow. One would sing a line or two and then the other. I didn't recognize what they were singing. It sounded like a Broadway tune. Maybe they made it up. Regardless, I thoroughly enjoyed their enthusiasm.

On the way home from work, I passed what I am almost certain was a bearded woman. She had delicate features, a long mane of hair, and a very long beard composed of a patch of thin hair at the base of her chin. This beard was about six inches long. She walked with confidence and it is clear that she cherishes her facial hair.

Today I read an essay about George W. Bush's long goodbye from the White House. The author noted that he has used the word "freedom" excessively in public speeches. He said it 27 times in his brief 2004 inaugural address.

Honestly, I am so adverse to George W. Bush's overall philosophy and policies that I don't bother to read his speeches closely. I'm not really sure what he means when he talks about freedom. After all, this is a man who has championed all kinds of surveillance activity that curbs the right to privacy.

I suspect his definition of freedom includes an assertion of Western ideals. For example, that girls can walk to school without worrying about being assaulted with acid.

The Taliban banned music, dictated fashion, regulated facial hair, and made homosexuality a capital crime. Yet, I doubt that George W. Bush would champion the freedom to burst into song on a city street without attracting frowns or strange looks.

I'm not much of a patriot. So, it surprises me to realize that I share with George W. Bush a passion to protect freedom. However, my passion is reserved for the special kind of freedom New Yorkers experience -- the freedom to be a woman and wear a beard, the freedom to sing a duet on a city street. A freedom so absolute one feels entitled to be oneself without censure.

It is the promotion or tolerance of these simple freedoms that create the strongest deviation from extremist regimes. This is precisely the kind of freedom worth fighting for.

Period Pareidolia

This really happened. It is disturbing, yet funny.

When I pulled up my pants in the bathroom today, I was surprised to see a little face smiling up at me.

I have my period, and the blood had formed a happy face in my pad. It wasn't a sloppy-you-can-see-it-with-one-eye-shut happy face, it was as clear as if it were drawn with a pen.

It was odd thing to see something simultaneously gross and friendly.

Immediately, I thought about how people have seen images of the Virgin and Jesus in cinnamon buns, the burn marks of a tortilla, or a grilled cheese sandwich. I wondered whether the same people who revered those religious sightings would cherish the appearance of a similar image in a bloody maxi pad.

It is a disturbing thought, but it also made me smile.