Sunday, 15 August 2004 | Highlights

E. and I struck a deal that he would drive me around the city while I took flattering pictures of him. Although I love public transportation and don't often think about the lonely Honda parked in my parents' yard, driving and cars have taken on new meaning for me since moving to New York.

They mean that places I generally think of as distant are minutes away. They mean windows down and breeze and autonomy, freedom from bus schedules and wistfully staring down the tracks for the train. They have become like that special treat that your parents used to let you have only on rare occasions—yes, I'll let you stay up late tonight, but we're not going to make a habit of it.

(Driving and cars still mean lots of negative things to me, too, but those concerns are dustily shelved away for other, car-dependent cities.)

So we went from DUMBO (in Brooklyn) to Queens to Roosevelt Island and again to Queens before heading back to Brooklyn, all of it seeming unusually close. Because the three of us were getting along well and being funny and mostly because we were in a magical automobile, the day had that rare movie-like quality, like that scene in bad romantic comedies in which the main characters are shown driving on the highway in a convertible, laughing and listening to a catchy ballad.

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The morning of my two-year anniversary in New York (last Tuesday), I walked out of my apartment directly onto the set of a police video, which I immediately regretted not being able to watch get made. I imagine serious expressions poking out from under hexagon-shaped navy hats and fake car chases, or at least fake handcuffing, gun pulling, and looking carefully around the corner with the barrel inches from the face.

Also on my street this week: political street theater and impromptu bike jousting. This is by far the most lively street I've lived on, and that's not including the almost daily neighborly chaos on the sidewalks and stoops.

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On the anniversary of the blackout, I watched some blackout-inspired amateur films in an appropriately dark and dank room. It was so crowded that I had to watch the films from a spot just inside the men's bathroom, which (fortunately) was pitch-black and (unfortunately) in use.

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At work they passed out little tote bags for us to keep at our desks, full of emergency items such as bottled water, a flashlight, and a dust mask. This package would be cute, like mini-shampoo bottles are cute, if it weren't inherently disturbing. Hello RNC.

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I don't have many guest roaches, and the ones that do drop by usually hang out in the kitchen or in the bathroom. Which is why it was alarming to find one in the back room while I was sitting at my computer. But the truly alarming thing is that not only was it not intimidated by me, but it crawled up my bare leg. Unaware of what was tickling my shin, I "scratched" my bare leg with my bare heel, which effectively stunted the roach and sent him flying to the floor. Bad bad bad.