W. 23rd and 8th Ave, Chelsea

A little past two in the afternoon of a beautiful Thanksgiving Day, probably 55 degrees, and this is where I sight the first corner Christmas tree stand of the new season. I mean, if you bought one there, today, what kind of condition would it be in by Christmas?

But the wave has started--five miles on the bicycle later, through crowded Central Park, on this perfect day even more than usual every individual's own private Idaho, and onto 11oth, up toward Amsterdam, the support scaffolding is going up for another, nearly-block-long stand, the "We accept credit cards" giant sign already in place.

You can take any almost any scene in this city and write your own script. I saw this one starting the ride, coasting the wrong way down that hill toward 125th. At the bottom a car stops and a woman, late 30's, blonde, plump, gets out, closes the door behind her, no slamming and walks off toward 125th. The car stops, then follows her. In it two children, 6 and 8 maybe, and a man driving. He parks a little up from where the woman must walk and as she passes, first the girl, then the little boy get out and run over and hug her, clinging. The guy never got out of the car. The woman was neither crying nor angry. I watch for a while, maybe three minutes, before heading down to the river bike path. Here's my script -- a family fight on Thanksgiving, she says, "enough, let me out, I'm gone," maybe for the day, maybe for good. The kids, holding on to a leg, an arm, "Mommy, please get back in the car." Both of the adults so calm, so resolute, this has been a long time coming.

Or it could just be a beloved aunt, walking back to her apartment after a visit, and the kids want to hug her some more.

From A-Rod to A-ida

Getting to our seats at the Met Friday night for Aida, an over-the-top crowd-pleaser production that has now been around for 21 seasons (since we got back from living in Argentina, since Reagan was President, for crying out loud), that features horses parading on the stage in Act 2, the presence of big, live animals on stage always greeted by huge applause, sometimes New York is just an overgrown Lodi. Anyway, on the way to our seats, we were passed by two guys dressed head to toe in Yankees gear. They called out jovially, "We've come straight from the parade." Since the parade had ended about six hours previously their parade must have included stops at a few friendly saloons. They made it through Act 2.

I close my eyes and see Matsui's ball rising toward right field, all of us out of our seats and suddenly beginning to believe the crisp night was going to end well.