A dear friend of mine once jokingly called me a flâneur. I wasn't familiar with the term at the time, but I liked the sound of it. The word, it turns out, comes from the French masculine noun flâneur—which has the basic meanings of "stroller", "lounger", "saunterer"—which itself comes from the French verb flâner, which means "to stroll". (Thank you, Wikipedia!) I like the derived meaning from Charles Baudelaire, though: that of "a person who walks the city in order to experience it," having a key role in understanding, participating in and portraying the city.
I decided to go car free this year, both to be green and to go lean. I live right on a major public transit line, so I can get around fairly easily, but it's still nothing like having a car. I think twice before going places and usually choose not to go, either because transit wouldn't get me there in time or because it's just too much of a hassle. When I have my dog (shared custody with my ex), I have to leave him behind as he can't ride the bus or MAX with me.
I've also experienced more personal hardship and tragedy in the past year than I'd wish on an enemy in a lifetime.
All of this resulted in me going from being a man about town—socializing, observing and chronicling—to a man about home. It hasn't been an entirely unhealthy change. But it hasn't been great either.
I've spent more time at the gym in my building and have also been eating at home more, which almost always means a healthier diet. But I've realized that the physical payoff hasn't been worth the mental and emotional toll of holing up and being much less social.
Yesterday afternoon I took my dog out for a long walk around the neighborhood. People who looked like they probably hadn't cracked even a gas pain smile since the late 90's broke into a full grin when they looked down and saw my irresistibly cute sidekick. I marveled anew at the gorgeous architecture and landscaping of the homes in the neighborhood. I drank in and savored the crisp air and rich colors of early autumn. I fell in love with the city all over again.
Our stroll took us over to lower Hawthorne Boulevard where the late afternoon air carried aromas that reminded me I hadn't eaten anything substantial all day. I'm not big on leaving George tied up outside for more than a few minutes, so I steered my little black ground kite to one of the finest pizza joints in town.
I was relieved to find they hadn't lost that charming Southeast customer service. The clerk ignored my greeting and sullenly took my filthy cash, making it clear that he was reluctant to sell me any pizza at all since I'd had the nerve to come in and pull him away from the critically important conversation he was having with the cook about where he'd picked up the faded, too-tight t-shirt he was wearing for the third day in a row. Apologetically, I slipped a single into the tip jar. It was the least I could do.
I took my slice outside and sat at a table on the sidewalk, sharing little bits of cheese with George as I ate. He stared at me adoringly the entire time, making it clear that I remain his trusted default food dispenser. (And his on call set of portable opposable thumbs.)
From the pizza joint, we sauntered across the intersection to a little bistro where I ordered a glass of the house red. The wine, it turns out, was Big House Red and the bartender saw fit to give me a pour to match the name. I took it outside and sipped it as the air cooled and the sun made it's way closer to the horizon. George was visibly annoyed that I hadn't bought something involving cheese or meat. His eyes seemed to say, "Dude, not even a crunchy vegetable?"
Despite my workaholic schedule of late, I've still had all the time in the world to pursue my various hobbies and passions. But I've somehow done very little of that. In fact, time on the weekends seems to simply melt away, crawling up the lazy hillside in the morning, and then cascading, rolling, tumbling down the other side toward midnight. I occasionally beat myself up for not being more motivated when I have free alone time, but I'll offer a solo display of my digitus tertius to anyone who tries to call me to account for it. Putting the rock and roll lifestyle on pause and pulling the busymobile off the autobahn for almost a year now has been a good thing. It's made me appreciate the fact that I'm a social creature.
And a flâneur.
The folks at Rhapsody have impressed me. Since I posted my last entry, Rhapsody has pushed multiple updates to their iPhone app and has introduced an impressive update to their web-based service—currently in beta. Both are stable and offer a set of features and music catalog that MOG can't seem to touch at this point.
Let me start by saying that the IBM and Lenovo service reps have always been very pleasant to deal with. And I've talked to a lot of them. Frequently. Which is the problem.
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