I am awash in residual joy from this weekend. Coming down from a high of spending four days in a paradise of friends, fresh air and ultimate good vibes. Two of the sweetest, smartest, silliest people I know tied the knot outside of Northampton, MA, and everybody in attendance is now living to tell the love about it. How do I explain this overabundance of happiness? Perhaps it is being out of town and away from work for the first time this summer. Perhaps the fresh, cool countryness, being in a smaller town and seeing the way life lives there. Perhaps a slower pace, an easy drive, the ability to play tunes on a car radio. These things definitely contributed. More likely it is the fortune of d

This week I was treated to one of those magical day that feels like falling down an enchanted rabbit hole. Beginning with a spur of the moment bike ride up to Transmitter Park, home of the best view of Manhattan Brooklyn can offer, I soak up a couple hours of riverside sunshine. To my left, I spot a barge bedecked in tables, chairs and what looks like way more fun than usual. Met by my honey, we decide to explore this tugboat of fun. Indeed, it is the fully launched Brooklyn Barge, a barge bar cum beer garden docked on the Greenpoint shore of the East River. We marvel at our luck: drinks and a boat in the middle of the afternoon? The crowd is small and friendly. Ideal. Some plastic cup pints

Another week of wet, 95 degree days. Afternoons growing sweatier by the second. An entire city wondering, "When's it going to rain?" Stir into the stew a bought of Future Fever, and you have a pretty good idea of this last week. It's the ides of August, and everyone's frenzied that summer is "nearly over." As we watch the "last weekends of summer" whip by, I remind myself not to panic. In the last decades, summer has seemingly gained an extra month. A season formerly relegated to June, July and August has sneakily tacked on the full length of September. On the eastern seaboard, the ocean accommodates swims and beach runs even into October. And with the whole city- lifeguards included- saying

Sometimes I run. As dictated by a fine bout of weather, the ebb and flow of the physique or, most often, the need for a physical break from indoors, I dig out my joggers, pin back the hair and head out. These running jags start and end as dictated by heat waves and cold spells and often precipitate on a day of supreme indoors antsiness. Too many hours in the same stew of thoughts, an excess of coffee, mind bulging with overthink. The only place to dump it out is the running route. My preferred circuit is a noose-shaped loop around Prospect Park. This route is punctuated and made possible by three water bubbler stops and the potential for spray coming off the majestic fountain centering Grand

Walking along 3rd Street towards another Rockwood show late last week, I spotted a treasure on someone's stoop. Stoop gifts are a magical part of New York culture that have given me plenty over the years. Typically things that will fit on a single step, stoop gifts are essentially rummage sale items you don't have the energy to coax 25 cents out of the public for: CDs, DVDs and books are most popular followed by glassware that doesn't match, baby gear, coasters, shoes (don't bother) and potentially broken small home appliances. Stoop gifts are not to be confused with curb finds, which are usually larger items, potentially furniture, and may or may not indicate a recent rash of bedbugs in the