Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

Don't blame me. The sexy girlfriend who hopped on the uptown E within a squeaker hairsbreadth of the "stand clear of the closing doors" was everything I have dreamt about: vintage wool jacket with leather darts and big-ass skull-kickin' buckle, velvet cuffs, steampunk black boots. And ooo la la. A folded-up scooter on a strap flung over one shoulder. I began to covet the scooter immediately. Imagine what a person could do with a scooter that folds up so you can toss it across your back like a two-wheeled samurai sword! I could make it crosstown to the East Village without waiting for the goddammed L train. I could scooter to East 42nd at rush hour without squishing tushies. OMG, I could roll over to the Union Square green market with a bungie cord and lash groceries to the scooter. It would surely happen if I only had a scooter. I mentioned the scooter possibility to Tom. Once or twice. I said I wanted a scooter with handbrakes and also a back fender because I saw a k

Baby Einstein has no taste in music, which is why I make Jackson and Ella mix-CDs. Right out of the womb, my niece and nephew could operate the stereo. So I was prouder than the proudest Aunt on record after the incident at the fancy mall in Princeton. A guy and his colossal organ setup belted out Christmas tunes in the atrium when apparently Jackson and his three-year-old sensibilities had enough of Jingle Bells. His wispy blond hair flared out in a tangle of determination as he marched up to the organist and asked if he could please sing a song. Despite his surprise and the possible pitfalls, the dumbfounded organist handed over a big-ass microphone into Jackson's tiny clutches."Um, what song do you want to sing, young man?" he asked. "Tokyo Police Club," answered my nephew, the prodigy, in his chipmunky little kid voice. "I don't know that one," replied the organist, "What else do you know?" "Julian Cassablancas" said Jackson