Flaming Pablum

At War with The Fitness Freaks: The Battle for Bond Street

Regular readers — again, if they exist — might remember a short series of entries I posted here back in 2016 wherein I attempted to divine the exact location of a short lived basement-level live-music venue called Downtown circa 1989. I remembered it as a place on Bond Street in NoHo that my beloved Killing Joke had been slated to play (going so far as having their name cited on a notice board outside its entrance). The venture actually closed before that show could take place. Other folks remembered it as place they’d seen local bands like White Zombie, the Lunachicks and the Cycle Sluts from Hell along with bigger names like Celtic Frost, Clan of Xymox, Cronos from Venom and Gang Green.

Honestly, I don’t think I ever found out much more about the place beyond pinpointing its location as the spot I’d remembered from that aborted Killing Joke gig. It was mere steps to the east of Broadway at Bond Street. here I am in front of it circa 2016.

It seems in the years since its tenure as Downtown — however fleeting that was — the space at 1 Bond Street has undergone a series of transformations, its days hosting loud rock n’ roll now but a romantic, sepia-toned notion for silver-scalped rock dads like myself. These days, it caters to a very different demographic.

As lamented here, in recent years, pretty much the entirety of the surrounding so-called “NoHo” neighborhood has become a de-facto “fitness corridor,” peppered with places like boxing-gym Rumble, David Barton, Soul Cycle, Equinox, Barry’s Boot Camp and a wide host of other workout-centric endeavors. I don’t necessarily decry the concept of physical fitness, I just don’t quite understand the necessity of such a high-volume concentration of said businesses in one single neighborhood.

True to this trend, the space at 1 Bond Street that had, once upon a time, been the rock club Downtown is now an adjunct space of a venture called Crossfit Union Square (who are technically located at the ominous location of 666 Broadway). From that lower-staircase, the clientele of same now regularly meet by the corner of Bond and Broadway, … and wait for their signal.

And when they get that signal — maybe it’s a starter’s pistol or a pertly chirped whistle or a gruff bark from a drill sergeant with a meaty neck — they run. And they run with a gravely humorless sense of determination around the circumference of the block.

The sprint sweatily and shirtlessly with rippling musculature towards Lafayette Street, at which point they turn like harried stags in flight of a hunter’s shotgun to the south and bound with breathy bravado down that stately avenue to the corner of Bleecker Street, where they turn west to lope like charging stallions back towards Broadway. Upon reaching that main artery, they course-correct like hoary steeds of glory to race north with steely focus. At Bond Street, they turn with great, dewy aplomb and complete their lap, glowing with an almost viscous radiance.

All to which I say, … “HEY, WE HAVE PARKS FOR THAT!”

I’m not sure if my handful of readers are at all familiar with the streets in question, but suffice it to say that the byways of Bond, Lafayette, Bleecker and Broadway can be handily described as “busy." Around that single block, highly trafficked businesses like Blick Art Materials, Bond No. 9, Showfields Department Store, Los Tacos No. 1, LeVain Bakery, Aape New York, Le Pain Quoditen, Wendy’s and a City MD (to name a few) all steadily operate. As such, the surrounding sidewalks are regularly teeming with foot traffic. In front of Los Tacos and LeVain alone, aspiring patrons literally line-up in anticipation of their turns. Navigating these stretches of crowded pavement even at a casual stroll can be demanding, lest you collide with an impatient muffin-consumer or taco enthusiast. Now, inject into this equation regular herds of fast-moving, self-absorbed, endorphin-addled fitness freaks and you have a roiling, organic obstacle course ready to detonate at any second.

Once again, I’m not saying anyone should necessarily refrain from working out or seeking to actualize their idealized visions of their healthiest, sexiest selves, but there’s a time and place for that shit, and the already pointedly crowded byways of lower Manhattan assuredly ain’t it.

Take it to the parks, people.

The Update

There’s nothing more self-indulgent and presumptuous than a blogger that continually apologizes for lapses in posting regular content, but here I go again.

As I’ve been routinely lamenting in myriad posts over the past couple of months, I’ve had a lot on the burner, so to speak, and my preferred schedule of regularly updating this stupid blog has taken a bit of a hit as a result. Adding insult to injury, I’ve also blithely dropped a couple of vague hints about certain aspects of my silly life that prompted a few people to be genuinely concerned. I assure you, that concern is sincerely appreciated but ultimately unnecessary, as it turns out.

I should preface this laborious saga by saying I’ve probably never been a model patient. For more years than is advisable, I took a “don’t fix what ain’t broke” approach to my health. I entirely neglected to visit my personal doctor, not even for regular check-ups. I felt fine, so why bother, right? A couple of years back, however, I was experiencing an issue so minor that I don’t even recall what it was, but figured it warranted a proper doctor’s explanation, so I tried to make an appointment with my primary care physician, … only to find out that he’d passed away about two or three years earlier. Oops.

From there, I started going to see this new doctor recommended to me by my wife’s obstetrician. Dr. K is about my age and has a nice, relaxed manner. For whatever reason, I find it immensely rewarding to make him laugh, as that seems to diffuse any anxiety I might be experiencing when needing to consult his services. I figure, if he’s laughing, nothing can be so dire, right?

In any case, after signing up with Dr. K, I resumed my regular routine of basically ignoring whatever health problems I might have been experiencing until absolutely necessary. I carried on with that until my advancing age and its accompanying rigors started meddling with my unsustainable idyll.

Prior to the pandemic, as recounted in these action-packed posts, the only real concerns Dr. K had were getting me to cut back on the beer and ensuring that I get around to getting a long-put-off colonoscopy. I was finally ready to undertake that latter task until COVID-19 came and turned our collective lives into a b-grade disaster movie with no ending.

Last year, I finally did take care of that particular issue, only to be breezily informed by my disarmingly dispassionate gastroenterologist that I needed to have another one only a year later. That’ll happen this coming June. But, that’s not what this post is about (you're welcome).

As ominously invoked in this comparable post of a few weeks back, over the course of the last several months, I’ve been struck by a couple of mysterious, recurring symptoms that revealed themselves in manners both inexplicable and worrying. Now, as a gent in his mid-50’s, while it is perfectly reasonable to expect an incremental degree of physical atrophy in multiple departments, I had these two strange conditions sprout up perfectly out of the blue, and both gave me a considerable amount of alarm.

The first problem was … the vision thing (with strenuous apologies to the Sisters of Mercy). It was a phenomenon I’d experienced sporadically throughout my life, but more recently, it had suddenly started happening quite often. Essentially, the experience unfolds as follows. My field of vision becomes suddenly obstructed by what seems like just another small “floater,” only this floater pulses and grows. Gradually, the floater impedes my ability to see clearly as it expands. It distorts my ability to focus, read or even pinpoint depth as it gradually — over the course of about 30 minutes — takes over the entire vista of my sight. And then, … it just stops.

That sound pretty scary, right? Well, lemme tell you, … it is.

As such, after a succession of these instances — usually one a day over a set of three or four days — I got my wife’s trusted eye doctor on the phone and made an appointment with all haste. A day or so later, I was in his office doing my best to describe what I just tried to explain above. The whole thing sounded so idiotic coming out of my mouth that I was relatively certain he was going to shrug and tell me to get over it. “Yes, I know exactly what that is,” came his surprising response, “but the problem isn’t an ocular one … it’s a neurological one.”

Oh…. great!

In swift order, he explained that these strange phenomena I was experiencing were called “visual auras,” which basically means electric waves that course across the visual cortex of my nonsense-addled brain. Evidently, they are most closely tethered to migraine headaches. Mysteriously, I wasn’t having any headaches — migraines or otherwise — just the auras, which were worrying enough. He basically told me that if they persist, I should go take it up with a neurologist. Oh joy.

I went back to Dr. K, my primary care physician, and gave him the whole schpiel. He said that, in light of the fact that I’d experienced them periodically throughout my life, it probably wasn’t anything to worry about, but to keep him informed if they persisted. He also told me to cut back on the beer, but then — he suggests that for every grievance I bring his way. That weary suggestion is usually met with an emphatic “why don’t you go fuck yourself?” We have a great rapport.

I didn’t get away that easily, though. After checking my vitals, he deduced that it was apparently high time to put me on blood pressure meds. A tiny white pill every morning. Imagine my glee.

A couple of months after that, however, I had to check into my local urgent care facility to have them poke around in my ear, as it was feeling prohibitively clogged up with viscous, waxy goo. Again, you’re welcome. They ended up giving me some frankly ineffective drops for it, but not before unsolicitedly checking my blood pressure, and coming up with a number they deemed “too high.” I relayed this fun bit of intel back to Dr. K, who wasted no time in adding another little pill to my morning blood pressure regimen. A little blue one, this time.

Concurrent to the addition of the little blue pill to my life came a completely new and foreign sensation. They started off in periodic bursts that swiftly increased in frequency. I started feeling the blood rushing in my feet pretty much all the time. Not tingling or numbness, mind you, which is a different thing entirely, but the naggingly regular feeling of blood coursing through the veins in my feet. It didn’t hurt, but it was new, noticeable, different and woke me up at night. I asked myself, “what is this and why is this happening?”

Using my shoddy powers of deduction, I leapt to the seemingly obvious (to me) conclusion that this new issue had be the result of that new little blue pill, right? I mean, these sensations started in tandem with my daily ingestion of the drug. It must have been a side-effect, I figured.

As it happened, this was all going on during a super busy and not-just-a-little stressful period at my office, wherein my attrition-battered department was responsible for jump-starting a series of important initiatives that had been dormant since the start of the pandemic. I honestly cannot recall a chapter wherein we were all so completely besieged and flying on fumes to get these projects done. The result of this was that I didn’t get around to getting back in touch with good ol’ Dr. K for about three or four weeks. So, basically, along with stressing my scalp silver over work demands, I was worrying myself sleepless about my mystery ailment for essentially a whole month before acting on it.

I shot an email to Dr. K saying that I’d assumed I was having odd side-effects from the little blue pill and described the blood-rushing-in-feet stuff and asked if it was cool that I went off it. He was reticent to concede that this new condition could possibly be the result of the pill, and preferred that I stick with it, as my blood pressure numbers were now at an all-time healthy low. Eventually, he said I could try it for week, but to also knock off the beer. “Up yours,” I responded, and started skipping the blue pill.

The week went by, but the blood-rushing persisted. Then, the visual auras came back in force — three in a row over the span of three days. I relayed this to Dr. K, who demanded I go back on the blue pill and to knock off all beer intake entirely, believing that the symptoms I was experiencing might be the amalgam of stress and alcohol fighting with the blood-pressure meds. Dutifully, I complied.

I went cold turkey on the beer, started investigating yoga and acupuncture options (hey, why not, right?) and did my best to settle my nerves (never an easy task, that). The visual auras stopped, but the blood-rushing-in-feet continued. At this stage, Dr. K said it was time to consult both a neurologist and a vascular specialist. I was not super enthused about the prospects, but figured actionable solutions would be better than trying to wish these things away.

Evidently, springtime in New York City is neurological grievance season, so finding an available appointment with one of the docs Dr. K had referred me to was like scoring box seats to friggin’ opening day at Yankee Stadium. The soonest I could schedule one was for some time in July, by which point the very problem I’m consulting them about may have gone away (here’s hoping).

I was, however, able to score an appointment with the vascular guy, a young gent who — after I was put through the paces of a veinous ultrasound probe — cheerily told me I had “the veins of a teenager.” While that certainly sounded promising, that didn’t explain the problem. He assured me that there was nothing …er….vascularly wrong with me. No clogging or blockages to be detected. He mentioned that maybe I should consult a podiatrist and/or I should invest in some deeply unfashionable compression socks. He had all faith that those would clear up the problem. I have yet to take the bait on that one, haunted by images of my late step-father’s peer group, walking around the beach out on Long Island in knee-high compression socks.

So, with that particular issue at least a little more illuminated, if not fully explained, the only items left to address on Dr. K’s to-do list remain the neurologist appointment about the visual auras, and, of course, my follow-up colonoscopy. The jury is still out on whether the visual auras are the result of undue stress, beer battling with the blood pressure meds, a combination of factors or something else entirely, but he said I could go back to having a couple of beers a week, which I, of course, have taken up with robust enthusiasm.

In any case, for the moment, at least, I’m not dying. I’m just aging.

Walk, Fat Bastard, Walk: A Playlist for July

In an ultimately futile attempt to be less of a fat bastard, I’m taking approx. three-mile walks around Quogue every morning, and exhuming a lot of music in the process. Based on the whole albums I’ve been listening to thus far, here is a de facto playlist for this month.

Enjoy.

1.“Juanita/Kiteless” by Underworld, from Everything, Everything.
2. “Boot Camp” by Soundgarden, from Down on The Upside
3. “Poor Boy” by Nick Drake, from Way to Blue: An Introduction to Nick Drake
4. “Your Silent Face” by New Order, from Power, Corruption & Lies
5. “The Hammer” by Motorhead, from No Sleep `til Hammersmith
6. “Damaged Goods” by IDLES, from The Problem of Leisure: A Celebration of Andy Gill & Gang of Four
7. “The Boy with the Perpetual Nervousness” by The Feelies, from Crazy Rhythms
8. “Summerhead” by Cocteau Twins, from Four-Calendar Cafe
9. “Wear Your Love Like Heaven” by Donovan, from Greatest Hits
10. “Hate Your Friends” by The Lemonheads, from Hate Your Friends

Central Park ... After Dark

Back in August of 2019, I started composing another long, detailed post about my years growing up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It was ostensibly meant as kind of a companion piece to a long post I’d penned about my encounters with some (very) small-time crime in that era. This post was going to concentrate on the significance of visiting Central Park during the less advisable hours of the evening, something myself and certain friends of mine used do with blithely idiotic frequency. I’m not sure why, but I believe I abandoned the post because so much of it was wrapped up with my memories of my friend Danny, who passed away in 2018, and reconciling certain stuff was just all a bit too much.

In a nutshell, though, in the process of unspooling those anecdotes about favorite, clandestine spots we used to frequent in the Park during off hours, I was going to underscore the obvious underlying message, that being that Central Park at night — then as now — is nothing to fuck with. The stories of my teenaged exploits in that capacity were not meant as nostalgic boasts so much as evidence of youthful ignorance. While it might sound cliched and/or even quaint, now, the nocturnal iteration of Central Park accrued a certain fearful reputation for damn good reason.

That said, most of my own indiscretions in this capacity usually occurred in strategic locations that were barely a few steps from the street. Apart from the few instances when my late friend Danny and I foolhardily opted to bike through Central Park in the pitch black of night, we were usually to be found in frantic sprinting distance from the relative safety of Fifth Avenue and points east. The deeper you walked into the Park at night, the greater your chances of finding trouble were.

In the ensuing decades since my high school days, there have been myriad instances of crime — from the banal to the unspeakable — that have gone down after dark in the Park. From the The Preppy Murder case in 1986 to the Central Park Jogger case in 1989 to the teenage stabbing case at the Lake in 1997 and countless other less notorious incidents, it has been a haven for foul play. Only a year ago was a man found hanging from a tree near the 74th Street entrance, and only this past September were bodies pulled out of both the Reservoir uptown and Swan Lake down at the southeastern end of the Park.

While inarguably one of the most tranquil and beautiful locations in all of Manhattan, the verdant splendor of Central Park should not lull you into thinking that horribly bad shit can’t happen to you there.

Earlier today, while brazenly wasting time on YouTube instead of working, I came across the video below, presented by a bright-eyed, freshly scrubbed gent named Brian from a channel called Perfect Little Planet. Shot in 2016, this video posits the question: “Is Central Park Safe at Night?”

Let’s watch, shall we?

Before we dive into the meat of this video, how astonishingly annoying is that bit featuring all the "Pokemon Go!” zombies? Jesus Christ!!!

Taking the perspective of the tireless running enthusiast, the video seeks to reassure late-night joggers that Central Park is indeed safe, if you use your head and stick to “well lit” and more populated areas, although one might think that would all go without saying. To be fair, though, just being “well lit” isn’t necessarily enough. There are certain portions of the Park he cites as well lit that are still comparatively remote and Hell and gone from an easily accessible exit back to the streets. And don’t forget — when you’re somewhere “well lit,” not only can you see things, … but you, too, can be seen. That isn’t always an advantage.

When Brian gets to the infamous 102nd Street Crossing — where the Central Park Jogger was attacked and dragged into a ravine in the nearby North Woods — he tidily glosses over the incident by merely alluding to it as “bad stuff.” This feels a bit disingenuous.

Personally speaking, I didn’t embark on a star-crossed running regimen until it was basically far too late, and my middle-aged knees quickly put a stop to all that. As such, I cannot fully empathize with Brian’s zest for running. More to the point, I have nothing against people running in the Park (better that than on the street), but were I asked to opine as to the best times to attempt it, I still wouldn’t recommend after dark. I can also fully appreciate marveling at stirring, vespertine views and empty straightaways as much as the next guy, but they might just come with a terrible price that you could otherwise wisely avoid.

But, Hell, I'm still no expert. I'm sure Brian's intentions are in the right place. But what about you? Do YOU think Central Park is safe at night?

Weigh in....

Fuck You, Dry January

I mean, let’s face it, January sucks, no matter how you slice it. Between it being long, dark and cold and the comedown from the ostensibly festive holiday season, one can’t help but enter into it with some semblance of dread and despair. This, of course, comes coupled for many with a sense of guilt and obligation, whether it’s because of the resolve to honor one’s New Year’s resolutions or simply to detoxify via the self-imposed exile from boozeville that is so-called “Dry January.”

In past years, I’ve endeavored to accomplish the DryJan challenge, as routinely mentioned on my year-end surveys and at great length here last year. Last time around, as I said, I was knocked off the horse early by the arrival of the colorfully named winter weather event, the Bomb Cyclone. That’s just an excuse, of course. Had it not been the Bomb Cyclone, I’m sure I would have concocted some other reason. In short order, it was beery business as usual.

This year, however, it felt less like a whim or nagging twinge of guilt and more like a necessity. December had proven to be a robust month of imbibing, what with a preponderance of holiday events to attend. After weeks of office Christmas parties, a wedding and a few other booze-laden social engagements, we repaired to my brother-in-law’s place out in Pennsylvania for Boxing Day. I was pretty much handed an open beer when I stepped out the car at 2:00 pm, and that kept going until well into the evening. By New Year’s Eve, I was beyond determined to undertake a Dry January. Hell, I was positively looking forward to it.

I wasn’t getting sloppy-shitty, blacking out, slurring my words, starting fights with strangers or anything, but the burly intake of beer was becoming routine, and my tolerance was ascending sharply. Between the probable weight-gain, the conceivable strain on my liver (although my friend Keith keeps reminding me: THAT’S WHAT YOUR LIVER IS FOR, DAMMIT!) and, frankly, the expenditure -– I felt it was high time to flex my long-dormant will power, dry my system out and save some money… the latter reason reinforced by the arrival of some beefy post-Christmas Amex bills.

For no readily apparent reason, however I decided to augment the swearing-off of beer with two other stipulations. I would go without my iPod (yep, I still use an iPod … and you can go fuck yourself if you find that funny), as I’d been noticing a shrill uptick in the tinnitus that has been screaming in my right ear since 1999. Being that it’s been suggested that alcohol-consumption heightens the ring (along with salt, sugar and pretty much anything else that makes life worth living … like, say, oxygen and sex), I figured I should give my ears a break as well as my liver. A steadily stentorian diet of IDLES, Daughters and, strangely, The Upper Crust for much of December certainly weren’t doing them favors.

The third prong of my resolution was fairly simple: Take the stairs. Not at the office, mind you, but at home. It’s not a big deal, but I figured walking up and down the five flights would be a good habit to get into. To be honest, my building is fairly squat, and you’re on the second floor before it even hits you and while you’ve digested that information, you’re practically on the fourth floor. But hey, … couldn’t hurt, right? Regular readers might remember my running campaign from a few years back. Recurring knee problems forced me to abandon that, but I figure walking up and down stairs is something I should be able to regularly tackle.

Anyway, that was going to be my January – thirty-one days marked by sobriety, silence and strength.

Honestly, the toughest of the three directives to honor has been the stairs. It’s not that I’m lazy or that I find ascending those five flights too challenging, but rather that I just forget. I walk into my lobby, and muscle memory almost takes over. I check my mail and boom, next thing I know I’ve pushed the button and gotten on the elevator. There have been times when I have actually gone back downstairs and repaired to the stairwell to complete my mission, but I’m just finding it hard to remember to do it.

Swearing off my iPod has been less complicated, although I threw that particular towel in today. In the ten days without wearing earbuds, I’ve noticed the ring minimally rise and fall in its ceaseless pitch, but not necessarily as the direct result of anything I’ve been doing – as far as I can tell, at least. This morning, I was just bored, so I slipped them back in and scored the latter half of my commute with some vintage New Order at a reasonable volume. No one is hurt by this.

In terms of the beer? Last night, after a bone-chilling walk home from the bottom of TrBeCa to the heart of the Village, I reconsidered my decisions. Yeah, I was able to turn it off for ten days, and can completely keep going, but why am I punishing myself? It’s not like someone’s going to hand me a fucking medal at the end of the month. I’m sick of drinking seltzer and tea in the evenings. I sprang for a six of Sapporo and indulged.

And with that, yes, I’ve technically failed Dry January again. I may go back to it this evening, but it almost doesn’t “count” now, not that anyone’s keeping score.

Weigh in, readers …. How are you fairing with your resolutions?

Activewear Despair

Easily as far back as this blog has been running (12 years, as of this past July), and invariably for some years prior to that, whenever a once-cherished neighborhood institution, long-running bar and/or lovingly curated mom’n’pop shop was excised from the streetscape over unreasonably spiralling rents, the popular refrain from change-wary and gentrification-weary local residents was “it’ll probably become a bank, a Starbucks or a CVS.” In those instances when something other than one of those three depressing options sprouted up in the footprint of the former local favorite, the inevitable rejoinder was then akin to “hey, at least it’s not a bank, a Starbucks or a CVS!”

It was a common utterance because it had becme so true. In 2017, there indeed are too many bank branches. There are WAY too many fucking Starbucks. There are too many CVS’s. I don’t mean to single out CVS, here… ther are also way too many Duane Reades and too many goddamn Wallgreens, but you doubtlessly get my point. In much the same way we don’t need another TD Bank outlet or another place to pay handsomely for some inarguably burnt-tasting coffee, we don’t need another location for a pharmaceutical chain. Feel free to click your tonuges and write me off as another hopeless NYC nostalgist, but you know damn well I’m not wrong on this point.

More recently, however, I’ve noticed another option that has joined the legions of banks, drug-store chains and Starbucks outlets as unwieldy limbs of the tireless hydra of homogenization that is gradually devouring New York City, and their proliferation is almost overtaking their afore-mentioned predecessors.

Put simply, we really, really don’t need any more Soul Cycle studios, Barry’s Boot Camps or any further nouvelle boxing gyms.

I don’t mean to knock anyone’s attempts to get healthy and better themselves, but if you’re so fucking dead-set on fucking fitness, why not walk the extra couple of blocks to an already existing one of these temples of perspiration?

WE DON’T NEED ANY MORE NEW ONES! ENOUGH ALREADY.

The Big Runaround: Back on Track?

I’m 47 …. and out of shape.

Regular readers may remember a bold series of entries I posted last year under the promising category title, “The Big Runaround.” Prompted by factors of advancing age, neglected health and a desperate initiative to inject a little bit of focussed discipline into a life recently rocked by sudden job-loss and multiple deaths in the family, I started a regimen of running. It seemed like all I could do.

Over the course of the next few months, I brought myself up to speed, streamlined my approach, augmented my routine and was beginning to hit my stride, so to speak. Almost on cue, however, I started developing a pain below my right knee. Not wanting to risk seriously injuring myself, I sharply curtailed my running in the hopes that the pain would subside.

In tandem with the knee pain, I’d also started to feel an old familiar pain in my shoulders flare up again (invariably due to stress). With these two complaints in mind, I started visiting a chiropractor, who swiftly deduced that I was suffering a bit of misalignment (although, truthfully, no one’s perfectly aligned) and that I was putting an inordinate amount of my weight on my right side, which might explain the pressure I was feeling below my right knee.

As a result, I started going in for regular adjustments and traction in the hopes of lessening some of my misalignment issues. This also involved orthotics in my regular walking shoes and, once again, the determination to properly update my running shoes.

Now that winter’s over (….right? Is it safe to say that yet?) and spring hath sprung, I believe I am ready to get back to my running regimen.

I’ve gotten the green light from the doctor, but I’m still a little concerned about my knee. I mean, at my age, it seems like no matter what I do, it might just be too late for my knees.

That all said, I am positively pining to reclaim the peace of mind that running was providing. I realize that sounds awfully melodramatic, but it’s easily been one of the most turbulent periods of my life.

It’s now been ten long months since I was actively employed. I am fortunate enough to currently be in talks with a few specific outlets, but momentum is hard to sustain, and I continue to wait for a solid offer from the right situation. If you know me personally, you know that I am always in something of a state of alert, but being stuck in the round-the-clock state of worry that has basically consumed my life has taken a toll. The runs helped combat that. When I couldn’t run anymore, it all closed in again.

Intent on getting back to it, I checked into my local Super Runners over on the western end of 14th Street today. Not wanting to simply pull a random pair off of a shelf at Foot Locker, I decided to spend a little extra — hopefully not in vain — for a more professionally-assessed fit. I walked out of there with a frankly ludicrous looking pair of new, customized Asics (see above).

While these shoes may indeed be stridently at odds with my own dubious fashion sense, I really don’t give a crap how they look. As long as they fit, responsibly support my feet and enable me to run, I’m good with them.

Tomorrow morning … we find out.

Re-Booting

Here’s a post that ought to handily amplify why most of the content here on Flaming Pablum pertains to the past, given that current doings are either cripplingly banal or worryingly grim. But such is life in 2015.

As I’ve mentioned a couple of times in passing over recent months, I am currently in the uncomfortable position of being between jobs. I’m endeavoring to extricate myself from this situation, but suffice to say, it’s a process that is taking some time. I’ve had some near-misses, I’m exploring new leads and looking forward to some hopefully fruitful chats in the coming days, but —again — these things don’t happen overnight. Or at least not to me.

In the interim, though, I’ve been understandably scaling back on expenditures. About two months ago, I managed to somehow lose my cherished pair of black Ray Ban sunglasses. I thought they’d turn up around the apartment, but they simply haven’t. While I was quite attached to them — given an ultimately minor anomaly on my physiognomy, I am generally vain and petty enough to not want to be photographed without sunglasses on — I can’t justify springing for another pair just yet. They’re important to me … but not essential. Similarly, after injuring my knee from running earlier this year, I’d intended to replace my pre-9/11-era pair of running shoes with some newer ones…but those, too, can wait. I should really only be spending on what’s absolutely necessary.

Today, however, I had to succumb. While I was dearly hoping they were going to survive another season, it seems my once-trusty pair of industrial “Ironbridge” boots from Dr. Marten have waved the white flag. That's them in healthier days in the pictures above -- both curiously taken by my former colleague Drew, who evidently found said footwear photogenic. They were kinda nice, though.

After about eight years of rigorous winter wear and tear, the soles have become troublingly porous. Should I step into a puddle of a specific depth, my double-socked heels feel the unmistakable caress of frost. While I confess to enjoying their needlessly clunky, battered look (somewhere between vintage GBH and John Bender in “The Breakfast Club”), the boots are no longer up to the task of keeping my feet dry and warm.

A new pair was needed. And with more snow and ice expected in the next couple of days, that new pair was needed now!

Now, despite my ever-advancing age, I am still prone to some stubborn hang-ups. In my aggrieved state of arrested sartorial development, I still bow to the need to dress like my favorite bands. As such, I eschewed the notions of procuring a pair of “duck shoes” from L.L. Bean (despite their sterling reputation, I shan’t go with anything that preppy) or Timberlands (I will never be hip-hop enough for those) and went right back to the well. For their seamless blend of both function and fashion, I ponied up for another pair of Dr. Marten's industrial “Ironbridges” (in basic black, of course…not counting the signature yellow stitching).

As up to combating cold weather conditions as they are of cultivating Cold War kool (to my mind, at least), my new boots seem freakishly huge. Half-a-size larger than my actual feet (Dr. Marten doesn’t acknowledge half-sized appendages), when I walk in them, I feel a bit like a member of KISS….or, Mr. Heavyfoot. But they are strong, sturdy and ready for action.

I may be at a crossroads. I may have some difficult decisions to make. I may be ensnared in a complicated and unenviable vocational situation at the moment. But, I'm ready for the weather.

Come at me, Winter. Come get what’s coming to you.

Escape from 2014

This was not a good year for my family and I.

At the risk of sounding cryptic, melodramatic and needlessly alliterative, 2014 left me feeling helpless, humbled, humiliated and heartbroken. As far as I’m concerned, it cannot end soon enough. I’m not foolish enough to assert that 2015 will be better, but I have hopes that it might heal the wounds and lift the curse that was this year. Time will tell.

In the interim, herewith this year's answering of this year-end survey.

1. What did you do in 2014 that you'd never done before?
Buy a headstone.

2. Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I’ve pretty much lost faith in resolutions. It’s not that I don’t believe in endeavoring to make positive changes, it's just that I’m no longer going to make them all contingent to some vague, annual promise to myself.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Some friends had babies, yes, but no one in my immediate orbit.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Yes, my mother-in-law and my step father both left us this year in fairly quick succession.

5. What countries did you visit?
Didn't

6. What would you like to have in 2015 that you lacked in 2014?
Gainful employment of the sort I was stripped of in July 2014.

7. What date from 2014 will remain etched upon your memory?
Honestly speaking, there were several notable dates, but I’d rather not have any bit of 2014 etched on my memory.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Getting through it.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Losing my job.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
I didn’t, no, but certain individuals very close to me continue to.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
A replacement pair of my contraband Nike Dunk-Low Black `n Tans.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
My friends who showed me unconditional support in some very dark times.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Some former colleagues, although circumstances conspired against us all, I suppose. Maybe I’m being too charitable.

14. Where did most of your money go?
COBRA and tuition.

15. What did you get really, really excited about?
I found myself getting really excited — in a negative way — about a few things. In a positive way, I was quite excited about my running regimen, until I hurt my knee. That said, I will return to it.

16. What song will always remind you of 2014?
I cannot say that music played as major a role in my life this year, as I was otherwise quite distracted.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
Much sadder.

18. Thinner or fatter?
The holidays have made me fatter, but, overall, stress and running kept me reasonably slim.

19. Richer or poorer?
Pointedly poorer.

20. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Succeeding, earning, problem-solving.

21. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Failing, fretting, despairing.

22. How did you spend Christmas?
Quietly with family at home.

23. Who did you spend the most time on the phone with?
Honestly, I have no idea.

24. Did you fall in love in 2014?
I was already very much in love.

25. How many one night stands in this last year?
Zero. I’m happily married.

26. What was your favorite TV program?
“True Detective” truly blew me away, and I remain a devout “Mad Men” fan.

27. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Yes, but it’s not healthy to dwell on it.

28. What was the best book you read?
I was particularly engrossed by Peter Bebergal’s “Season of the Witch: How the Occult Saved Rock and Roll."

29. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Didn’t do much music-discovering. Spent some time re-examining the back catalogs of some of my favorite artists. That said, when I did finally manage to check out the still-appallingly-named Eagulls, I fell entirely in love with their debut album. Great, great stuff.

30. What did you want and get?
Nothing springs to mind.

31. What did you want and not get?
A new job and….the answer to an ongoing problem.

32. What were your favorite films of this year?
Hated “Boyhood.” Underwhelmed by “Birdman.” Left indifferent by “Gone Girl.” I’d say “Mr. Peabody and Sherman” was the best new film I saw.

33. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
47, and spent it at home with my wife and kids.

34. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Not losing my job. Not losing a couple of loved ones. Some other things.

35. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2014?
There was no concept.

36. What kept you sane?
I was not kept sane.

37. What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
None.

38. What political issue stirred you the most?
I was honestly distracted by other things.

39. Who did you miss?
John E. Newman and Mary Boulos.

40. Who was the best new person you met?
I can’t say I remember that many new folks this year.

41. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2014
Don’t ever imagine that it cannot get worse. It always can.

42. Song lyric that sums up 2014:
There is no music for this year.

The Big Runaround: Misaligned

Bet ya thought I'd forgotten about all this stuff, right? Well, think again.

In our last painful episode, you'll remember I'd been sidelined from my running regimen by the sudden appearance of a sharpening, persistent ache under my right knee. Not being a "fight through the pain" type of guy, I took this as sign from my aging body that I needed to cease running immediately. I wasn't happy about it, but I didn't think it was wise to ignore it.

That was back in September. I figured I'd lay off the knee for a week or two until the pain subsided. I also thought it would be prudent to invest in a new pair of running shoes, being that the New Balance ones I'd been using dated back to the balmy days of the Clinton Administration. Regardless, I was determined that I was going to get back on the horse, so to speak.

But, as it so often does, life got in the way. Before I knew it, I was swept up in daily doings, tackling other projects, picking up some freelance work and concentrating on my job search (if you haven't figured it out by now, I've been out of work since early July). The more time went on, the more I started finding other legitimate excuses not to factor running back into my life. I was -- and remain -- concerned about that.

If you've ever been suddenly out of work, you know how stressful it can be. Suffice to say, my situation has been no exception. Presumably as a result, I started feeling increasingly tense -- not just mentally and emotionally, but physically -- awakening a long-dormant problem I had in my upper back that first revealed itself in the early 90's. As such, I'd started going with increasing frequency to get massages at one of those Asian nail salons on Broadway, but I was finding that this was a problem that was out of their jurisdiction. It was time to go to a chiropractor.

Today, I ducked into the office of a chiropractor in the East Village my wife had used a year or so ago. I explained my whole deal -- alluding to both my back problem from the 90's, my running problem and the stresses that currently conspire against me. He gave me a full examination -- complete with an x-ray -- and immediately noticed that I'm suffering from a somewhat pronounced misalignment, causing me to put more of my weight on my right leg....a condition that could easily explain the stress on my knee.

I'm slated to go back in next week after he's had time to examine my x-rays, but I'm hoping I'll be able to take steps soon to get back into some running shoes and back out there.

Stay tuned.