OTAS, you found it

In spite of its obvious inadequacies, one of the reasons for living out in Bay Ridge is that the area is so beautiful. I love to go for long jogs listening to music and mulling over things in my life and the world. So today when I got home, though at dusk, I went for a lovely sunset jog on the 11-mile promenade along New York harbor.

Listening to Rigoletto, I found myself thinking about my parents' visit (I know, I know, enough about the family already) and what a whirlwind weekend it was. I was thinking about their arrival on Friday, the meal I prepared, and how a couple of drinks turned conversation into debate, a few more drinks turned debate into rancor, and how a few more turned rancor into tears.

As the sun set, I was thinking about the debate phase, particularly with my father. I reflected on my youth and how anything he said was taken in as though a burning bush were beside him and his stone tablets. Gloating, I though about how I was able to turn his arguments against him and got him to admit he was an anarchist (which is was not, which made it even sweeter). “My, how the mighty have fallen” I thought.

An hour passed and the iPod turned to Sour Angelica as I thought about my mother. How different we were and how we could have such different views on things. They seemed so, well, numb to the social niceties I’ve become accustomed to in New York (does she even know of the iPod that I’m listening to?). And as I neared the end of my jog, I vaulted up the many steps that bring me from the promenade back to Shore Road. After what I thought was the last step, I lunged into my next stride when suddenly it felt as though someone grabbed on to my feet then threw my body to the ground.

As I skidded across the sidewalk I knew I’d been injured. I picked myself up and examined my wounds. My hand hurt and even in the dark I could see the blood dripping from my fingers. The haughty music and iPod were about 7 feet in front of me, destroyed. My thoughts, again, turned to my parents. “What if I need stitches? What if my hand is broken?” I thought “If these injuries are bad enough I know my mother would fly back and take care of me. I KNOW she would.” There isn’t a doubt in my mind my parents would do anything for me.

I walked back home, opened the door, and dressed my own wounds wondering if I should go to a hospital, then thinking "My mother would love this recording of Sour Angelica with De Los Angeles."