me in the piazza

I'm a writer, publishing both as SJ Rozan and, with Carlos Dews, as Sam Cabot. (I'm Sam, he's Cabot.) Here you can find links to my almost-daily blog posts, including the Saturday haiku I've been doing for years. BUT the blog itself has moved to my website. If you go on over there you can subscribe and you'll never miss a post. (Miss a post! A scary thought!) Also, I'll be teaching a writing workshop in Italy this summer -- come join us!
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Oh, that silver lining

There often is one, isn't there? In this case, it's even farther along the continuum, maybe as far as a blessing in disguise. As many of you know, my gym closed. Yes, the late great 19th Street Gym, aka Testosterone Plaza, where I worked out for twelve years, is no more. Went there two weeks ago, after having been out for three weeks between travel and illness, and there I was rarin' to go work out -- and the gates were down! Over, done, took de money an' ran Venezuela. Or someplace. So, great drama all over the blogosphere, and great calm and competence from a guy named Kelly Ford, blog now linked above -- very interesting takes on NYC -- who took the lead on finding out info and doing the only practical thing: arranging for the building staff to let folks in and at least get our stuff out.

So, I have my sneakers and Mastercard says it'll give me my money back. Great, but then the Big Question: where to go now???

Looked at a bunch of places, and based on what I saw plus recommendations, the winner is the McBurney Y. Or I should say, the winner is me. This is a much better gym. It's also more expensive (which says something, maybe, about why 19th St. closed, if a Y is more expensive). But I just went and worked out for the first time, and I loved it. The machines are good, there's an indoor running track, a steam room, and a basketball court so I can practice my midrange jumper! It's also closer to my apt. I'll dig up the money -- I mean, it's more, but it's not outrageous -- and I'll be much happier.

So to Tommy and the other meat-head steroid-pumped screw-ups from 19th St: goodbye. With affection, thanks for the workouts and the twelve good years. And thanks, I guess, for closing.

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