Happy Bastille Day, everybody -- which, coincidentally, happens to also be my birthday. Jon's family has graciously invited us over for chicken marsala and ice cream cake to celebrate. It should be quite a party... Heads will roll!

I'm still recovering from our gallavante around Gotham the last few days when Jon and I stayed with the infamous "Rob, the EMT" and got to hang with Roe and her mysterious "M" and, of course, Mr. Evanizer. A great time was had by all, and both Jon and I are looking forward to the next Metafilter gathering

Jon and I were just doubled over with laughter reading Kaf's latest entry, a hilarious account of his misadventures with some rather obstreperous bees. I am reminded of the infamous cricket incident at my parents' house some years ago. You see, for the longest time, at least a month or so, there periodically occurred this quick, high-pitched chirp that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once and, thus, was impossible to locate. I, myself, searched through the house on several occasions trying to find the source. A few times, I thought I had it cornered behind the sofa in the living room or under a dresser or bed. Still, I never could get a clear look at what we all suspected was a cricket. "Don't kill it," my mom would say, "crickets are good luck." I took to stalking my quarry armed with a plastic cup and paper plate, just in case I did ever find him.

Finally, while relaxing in the den with my folks and again hearing the characteristic "chirp, chirp," the finger of God, a la Michelangelo, tapped me on the shoulder and I realized what that chirp had been all these weeks: the low battery alarm on the smoke detector, mounted in a corner near the ceiling in the bedroom hallway. We were all somewhat disappointed. But the best part is, my father had insisted that he not only heard said cricket, but had seen said cricket numerous times, especially in the morning when he went out for his newspapers. He was retired by then, but was still an early riser, often waking a delinquent paperboy or girl with irate predawn phone calls demanding his missing Post or Times or Wall Street Journal. Even after we knew the true source of the mysterious chirping, my father insisted he'd seen a cricket. Who knows? Maybe he did.

Happy 4th of July everyone! Hope y'all got the grills fired up and the sparklers sparklin'... I just finished my first week, all-be-it a short week, at my new high school, Theodore Roosevelt, in the Fordham area of the Bronx, where I'll be teaching English full time come fall. It's a large school, about four thousand students, and I'm very excited to be there. Right now, I'm just helping out with summer school as part of my training with the New York City Teaching Fellows program, which I highly recommend to anyone interested in becoming a teacher in NYC.

I'm sorry to rush off now, but I'm on my way to pick up Jon (my better half, for those who don't know) at work up in Danbury, CT. We've been sharing my car while his is in the shop getting a new/used transmission installed. It's been hard on him, getting up so early to take me to the train station to catch the 6:08, and then coming home to get ready for work himself. But I must say, I enjoyed riding together this morning, down Route 25, past Newtown's ten-story flag pole in the middle of an intersection, across from Flagpole Realty (which I consistently misread as Flagpole Reality), life-sized wood-carved grizzly bears, roadside hot dog stands, and, of course, the giant piles of mulch (which someday I must climb), listening to Guided By Voices and having our a.m. cup of joe (I've been reading Kerouac, can you tell?).

Well, I better get going; he'll be pacing in front of the store if I don't get a move-on. I know it's hard enough working the holidays. (But look, honey, I managed to put in a couple links!)

Post number two... she's at the gate... she's having trouble settling in... she's a hundred to one shot, folks... and, she's off!! (Is she ever!). Seriously though, this blogging is a rather strange experience at first, a kind of "open book" journal. I've written journals before, of course, both the gushy personal kinds (which I usually destroy) and the somewhat more conservative academic/reader response types, but this is... well, different. In seventh grade, so many, many years ago (on a far away planet), my entire journal was about "Glen B". I remember the journal itself -- white, with gold lettering. And I remember I wrote in red pen. Red was the color of love, after all. He finally sort of asked me out senior year (he wanted to go for a walk in some field -- weird??), but I declined. As with other journals, I know I must have gotten rid of that one too (probably before I left middle school), fearful of having my adolescent adorations exposed, but it's really too bad. It could have made a great drinking game (one jell-o shot each time you hear the word "dreamy").

Strange what comes up in these blogger blurbs... Glen B., hadn't thought of him in a while. I think he was getting a master's degree in engineering not too long ago. I thought I was going to talk about my upcoming first day of teaching summer school English in the Bronx tomorrow, but these blogs have a mind of their own, don't they?

One final word of thanks to my blogger guru/better half, mr. jonmc, of View from the Counter fame, who helped me pitch tent here at Blogger. I am forever your humble blogger subject.

OK, here we go, my very first post. My better half, the illustrious jonmc has been most patient in walking me through the basics of blogging (he's only resorted to flogging twice -- "Link, dammit, link!").