I ate Thanksgiving dinner at a table with people from France, Israel, Germany, Holland, Japan, Asia/Africa, and the U.S. At the end of the meal, we were each given packages, which we randomly chose from a big basket. ("Smaller is better!" we were warned.) After making our selections, everyone at the table simultaneously unwrapped various odd-looking hats that we were told to wear the remainder of the time. (I was relatively lucky and unwrapped a hot pink children-sized knit hat with a purple flower and ear flaps.) It seemed like some sort of old tradition I wasn't aware of, but since it was an American holiday thrown by foreigners, I don't think that's likely.

The second half of Thanksgiving was spent with a group of other friends (and wine and a dog and a bright skyline) on top of a large Brooklyn roof. I didn't take any photos. For some reason, when everyone else seems to have his/her camera out, I never seem to want to take any pictures myself. I don't know why.

...

I've taken the elitest plunge and handed my clothes over to a laundromat to be washed for me. I really hate finding quarters and waiting for an available machine and sitting there while the machines tick the minutes of my life away, especially when it's almost just as cheap to give them to someone else to do. I think it'll be worth the trade-off: a stranger sifting through my well-worn bras, probably using odd-smelling detergent, and possibly bleaching or shrinking or losing my clothes. I imagine that if it goes well, it will be hard to return to the way of the working class.

However. When I went to pick up my things, I was told I should come back in 30 to 45 minutes. Forty-five minutes later, I returned to find the laundromat completely closed. About the same time, I discovered I was having an allergic reaction to the gum I chewed from a (new) pack of Garbage Pail Kids: my heart was racing, I had a headache, and I developed a rash that spread to my palms. Seriously, from Garbage Pail Kids' gum. Not the laundromat's fault, I recognize, but still.

There is a white guy, about fifty, who rides the G train and sits next to girls about my age. He asks, "Do you have the time?" After the girl responds, he masturbates for the next several stops, pausing when other people get on the train, and resuming when they're settled and their dead gaze is fixed straight ahead. He'll change seats, moving across the aisle from her in case she didn't notice; then he'll prop a leg on the seats beside him, slouch his shoulders, take it out, and resume.

I didn't look directly at him (and therefore wasn't positive) until I stood up to get off at my stop. (I kept thinking, that can't be what he's doing. I mean, who masturbates on the subway?)

Ah, Thanksgiving in New York.

It's usually parked on the street in front of my apartment; I think it belongs to someone who works at the barbershop next door (specifically, the man who is holding the razor in this photo). It's black and shiny and has a formidable car alarm that jumps to life at the encouragement of a mere sneeze. Across the top of the windshield are the words, "DON'T SWET ME." My friend Dave has a theory that if you told the guy that there's an "A" in "sweat," that he'd reply, "Hey, I thought I told you not to sweat me." Dave claims that the guy is, in essence, simultaneously challenging you to sweat him (by choosing to spell "sweat" wrong) and warning you not to sweat him (á la "DON'T SWET ME").

"Do you have kids?" he asked several people in the room, one by one, without further explaining why he wanted to know. First, he asked my (male) temporary physical therapist, and, second, he questioned a demure woman who was busy concentrating on her leg exercises. "I don't have kids, either," I offered, and the man smiled and shook his head, mounting his defense. "Now, I'm not trying to be nosey."

He was enormous, in a tall and strong sort of way. Dark skin and a gold cap on one of his front teeth, probably the sort of man who inspires a certain breed of old white women to tightly clutch their handbags when they see him.

Sitting stationary on an exercise bike, his big knees bent up like sharp mountains, he finally revealed that he had some extra tickets for a kids' Christmas play, that the play was tomorrow, and that he wanted to give the tickets to someone who could use them.

He was met with approval. "That's sweet," one woman said. "That's very nice," said another. "Yeah," he replied, almost more to himself than to the women. "...now, I'm not asking for any money for them; I'm giving them away for free," he stressed. "I just think some kids ought to go and enjoy it, you know? I mean, adults can go too—I saw it last year and it was okay—but I think kids would really dig it."

As I moved around the room to the various stations during the next hour of therapy, I could still hear segments of the same phrases as he offered the prize to every person in the room. "Now the play is tomorrow, so there's not a lot of time for me to get rid of these tickets...I'm not asking for any money...I just want to give them to someone who'll appreciate them." He explained his case with each new person as thoroughly as the last, even though no one could use the tickets.

When I left, he was still making the rounds, but had developed a kind of sweet grin on his face, as if he was surprised and pleased with himself that he'd cinderella'd himself and escaped his intimidating appearance.

Today I remembered, for no apparent reason, that when I was about six or seven, I liked to pretend that I was a Martian. In fact, I somehow roped several of my friends into becoming Martians as well. I don't remember anything that we did to separate ourselves from the non-Martians, except that we had meetings and we said "ciao" instead of "bye." (In the notes we passed it was spelled "chow," however, because we were six and that's how "ciao" was spelled back then.) It was unlike me to start a club, let alone be its leader, but I think that's how it happened. Until the day I overheard one of my friends (a non-Martian) say that the Martians were stupid. Shortly afterward, I quietly became an Earthling again.

...

I put up pictures from Wigstock, an all-day drag festival that I wandered around this past August. Go look.

"You tend to attribute more power to authority figures than is there and give over to these figures an ability to 'see through' you—which also is not apt to be there."

Tonight I walked through the subway turnstiles, exiting the station just as the alarm bleated the familiar staccato bursts to announce a coming train. My first thought was, "I didn't steal anything, I swear."

I've never stolen anything, or at least not that I can recall.

...

Several weeks ago I re-met Colin, the guy who saw me crumpled on the bridge and asked whether I was okay and sat with me after I shook my head no. We met for coffee for the sake of it, and we talked about anything other than the accident for the first hour. Eventually, as if we'd arrived after a long drive, we reconstructed the events from our two perspectives.

He was about like I remembered: long, blond dreadlocks, young, friendly, concerned. He admitted that, at the time, he didn't really know what he was doing, but felt it was important to pretend as if he did.

My accident didn't seem that bad, he said, but only because the week before he'd rescued another girl, on another bridge. Only she was unconscious and inhaling gulps of blood from a pool she'd created. When Colin approached her, a guy at the scene announced his defense: "It was her fault!" he repeated, answering all of Colin's questions with the same four words. Colin, being the expert bike accident rescuer, insisted that the guy hang around until the cops came and that they call an ambulance.

My accident, he said, was much easier.

We hadn't intended to go there, or to go anywhere else, but a group of people on the corner yelled to tell us about the free drinks at a nearby place that was closing, so we shrugged and went. No cups or glasses, we were told. "Those pitchers over there are clean, though."

They were disassembling the room around us, moving past us like busy insects, bowling into our feet with the broom, chipping away at walls. The ones who spoke were friendly, but purposeful.

We watched as they gathered around a man who insisted he could karate chop a piece of wood in half with a single strike. With one quick, low slice of his arm, the wood divorced and fell to two sides. The others (including me and Ben) were impressed and laughed in response. More wood! he ordered. Lessons were given (you must hit with the back of your hand!), more wood-choppers anointed, and larger stacks of wood were severed. The instigator seemed pleased with himself, despite the fact he'd given away his secret.

David left his cell phone in a cab (he thinks it was a cab) two nights ago. As part of his search for it, he called his own number repeatedly, waiting for someone to answer. Success. When he began to explain that the phone belonged to him, the person on the other end of the line immediately hung up.

He found a list of calls made from his phone since its disappearance; it shows that calls have been made literally non-stop for the last day-and-a-half—every few minutes, for one minute each, to a million different people in the Bronx. The phone's new owner apparently doesn't sleep; I imagine that's part of the reason he knows so many people—without the need for sleep, he has lots of time to socialize. He just threads his way through the city with bloodshot eyes in a shiny, yellow box, making Bronx telephones ring.

David cut him off today, disconnecting the phone. I wonder if this means the man with the phone will finally go to bed.

If I had more time, I would relearn everything I once knew about music (in addition to everything I don't know about music), and I would play in a band. I wouldn't care if we sucked (although of course it'd be nice if we didn't), just as long as we stood on stage and lost ourselves in the notes and felt the buzzing energy produced by perhaps the crowd or the amps or drinks.

I want to go on tour in a beat-up van and see the landscape change, listen to the morphing gas station accents, learn the shapes of different dressing rooms, and see the faces of towns I'd never visit otherwise. I imagine that we would take turns driving and sleeping and reading the road atlas and paying for gas. Over plates of bad food, we'd laugh about things we'd forget about later. We'd also argue and have to travel in heavy rain; we'd sometimes have sparse crowds and money problems and bad sound. We'd wear clothes that we'd carefully consider yet we'd look like we'd gotten dressed in the dark.

In order to do it, I'd have to sacrifice several things, things that are probably more important to me than playing music. And I'd have to somehow drum up the focused determination of a guitar-playing thirteen-year-old. Which I don't think I can do. It would be nice, though.

I received official-looking mail that:

[one] did not tell me that there is lead paint in my apartment, but that if I have a child under six, there may be lead paint in my apartment.

[two] did not bill me for surgery, but suggested an amount I will probably have to pay.

[three] did not ask me to be a juror, but noted that I may eventually become one.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do with any of it, so I keep the letters, stacked together, like a collection of old Chinese fortunes.

Twenty-nine. For the occasion, I've put up a progression of picturess (me, from the beginning until now). Somewhat embarrassing, of course, but whatever.

It's not considered a privilege to have been in the care of the entire staff of physical therapists in a single office, or at least that's what I gather from their reactions when they see my chart. "Oh my, you've been passed around, haven't you?" They shake their heads and apologize for having to ask me to tell my story again.

We talk about what exercises the other therapists have had me do, what I have and have not been doing at home, and how much I'm able to straighten my arm. In any case, I've learned something about how differently people approach their jobs/my arm. (I only saw friendly Tony twice; apparently he's in the hospital and isn't coming back for a long time.)

Corrina is my new "stable" therapist, and so far (three visits in) I think I like her the best. Yesterday four of us—Corrina, me, a therapist-in-training, and a guy named Matt who had a very similar accident to mine—sat around comparing stories while Corrina toyed with my arm as if it were a nutcracker. Matt said that he had randomly been biking with Robin Williams in Central Park, when a girl stepped out in front of him, causing him to crash and flip over his handlebars; the therapist-in-training had gotten caught in her toe clips; Corrina had gotten "doored."

The physical therapy "gym" runs like a humming machine. A woman in a corner walks in place in a giant clear tub of water; another woman walks in another direction on a treadmill, also going nowhere, ponytail swinging; a man jogs on a mini-trampoline in a sweaty t-shirt; another two play catch with a giant rubber ball; people stretch their injured limbs on giant rubber bands; they lift weights; they stretch and bend like accordians. I imagine that if you could look at the room from a distance, it would look something like a symphony.

Usually they leave the radio thoughtlessly playing. On Saturdays it's often Car Talk, and on weeknights its generally one of those bad "mix" stations that specialize in the unoffensive. The lights are florescent and the ceiling is made up of an endless pattern of squares. The therapists almost always have me lie on my back; as they reshape me, I count squares.

By the way, my brace and I have ended our relationship, as of a few days ago. An easy break-up.

I returned to New York via a diesel U-haul which whistled and roared and made me cringe every time I saw a black cloud of foul-smelling smoke dance in the rearview mirror. Sometimes it floated as far as the windshield and into the cab, and I would reluctantly suck it into my lungs through a filter made with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. I'd originally planned to fly back (I'd already bought a plane ticket), but I didn't mind taking highways instead; sometimes I miss highways.

Although highways lower your standards. If there's nothing in the vehicle but a radio to sing to you (as was the case in the U-haul), you find some curious pleasure when you discover a bad classic rock station. You consider twisting your legs and resting them on the dashboard a comfortable position. You eat fast food and convenient store sugar, and you announce, with a tinge of excitement, the Denny's sign you saw on the side of the road, even though you know that you will feel regret after you finish your food and that the robust air conditioners in the restaurant will force you to wear gloves while you eat.

We stayed overnight in a nowhere town in Maryland at a flat one-story motel which was affiliated with a neighboring dive bar that sold incredibly cheap beer. To get a room at the motel, you have to make your way through the bar and get a key from the bartender. The room you're given has thin carpet, a stiff, flowered bedspread (the kind with the foamy underside), and two wrapped bars of Lisa Luxury Soap in the bathroom. It is nicely unrefined, not that you spend much time in upscale hotels.

We arrived in New York at 3:00 the following day. Of course I'm not much help moving furniture, as the mobility of my right arm is still limited, and my triceps have all but died. But I can read road maps, I have ideas (like going to Denny's!), I can clean, and I can guard the truck. Other than those four things, though, I am completely useless.