Over at the DG, I write about how I spent my birthday: doing a ropes course that entailed ziplines, navigating wobbly elevated bridges and swinging from one weird aerial obstacle to another.

Here's an excerpt:

"Earlier this year, a friend and I hatched a plan to go zip-lining.

We agreed that this would be a fun thing to do, an unusual and adrenaline-filled activity that would satisfy our need for adventure. But plans are much easier to hatch than to execute, and as the summer begin to wind down I suggested we come up with a zip-lining date before winter.

'Maybe we should go zip-lining on my birthday,' I said.

My friend and I decided that this was a great idea, which is how I found myself getting up early last Saturday morning for my trip to Adirondack Extreme, an 'aerial adventure park' in Bolton Landing. Before we left for the park, we got into the spirit of things by watching 'I Never Should Have Gone Ziplining,' a recent episode of the animated TV show 'South Park.' At the park we met our friend Kristen, who was also in the mood for a birthday adventure.

Adirondack Extreme is about so much more than zip lines.

The park comprises five elevated obstacle courses, which get increasingly difficult as you move from one level to another. Each level contains between 10 and 17 elements — wobbly midair bridges, Tarzan swings, what the park euphemistically describes as 'swinging surprises' and, of course, zip lines. For me, the zip lines functioned as something of a reward; after making my terrified way across the other elements, I was more than ready to strap my harness to a cable trolley and zip through the air like Batman."

Click here to read the whole thing.

Over at the DG, I write about how I like to eat like a king when I hike, and how hiking makes me feel like I can do whatever I want. 

Here's an excerpt:

"Fall is a great time for hiking, as there are fewer people on the trails and the weather tends to be just about perfect — not too hot and not too cold.

On Labor Day, I decided to celebrate the arrival of autumn by hiking Phelps Mountain, one of the Adirondack High Peaks.

Phelps, I was pleased to discover, is an underrated mountain.

We chose it mainly because it’s supposed to be easier than most of the other high peaks, and I wasn’t expecting too much. My hiking guide described Phelps as modest. And at 4,161 feet, it is relatively small. But Phelps is beautiful, from start to finish. The trail parallels a crystal-clear brook for much of the way and, although most of the hike is tree-covered, the flat, open ledge of a summit offers a stunning view of the surrounding peaks.

Upon arrival, we found a nice patch of rock to sit on and settled in, rummaging through our backpacks for refreshment. We carefully laid out our banquet: I unwrapped the cheese — brie, our favorite — and opened the package of garlic-herb crackers and a bag of trail mix — a medley of nuts, chocolate and raisins. My friend set out small plastic containers filled with cut watermelon and cucumber, as well as pepperoni slices from a local deli.

'Where’s the brie?' my friend’s son asked impatiently."

Click here to read the whole thing.

Over at the DG, I write about the anniversary of Hurricane Irene, and why we need more compassion in the world.

Here's an excerpt:

"A few weeks ago, I bought tickets for the Restoration Festival, a three-day music festival that will be held the second weekend of September at St. Joseph’s Church in Albany.

I attended Rest Fest last year, and it was a blast — great music in a cool setting.

But what I remember most about the event today is that it coincided with Tropical Storm Irene, prompting two of the national acts scheduled to play to cancel, and organizers to make the event free.

Even so, I had no idea how bad the storm was.

I never lost power and the one-mile trip from my apartment to St. Joseph’s Church was uneventful — no downed lines, no flooded streets. At the church, I heard ominous stories of flooding in Troy, but nothing that truly conveyed the extent of the devastation unfolding in places like Schoharie County, Rotterdam Junction, Scotia, the Stockade and the hill towns of Albany County. Of course, I’d made the mistake of paying attention to national news reports that weekend, and they were full of disappointed chatter about how the storm was an overhyped letdown because it didn’t destroy New York City."

Click here to read the whole thing.

Over at the DG, I write about body surfing in Maine, my favorite stuffed toy and how we both hold on and give up the pleasures of childhood.

Here's an excerpt:

"I recently took some young friends to Maine for the weekend, a 12-year-old boy and his 17-year-old sister.

The weather was acceptable — overcast, but warm enough for outdoor activity — and so we headed to the beach, where we were delighted to discover that the water was fairly warm, too, and that the waves were decent — good for boogie boarding and body surfing, which is what I do.

The kids dashed into the water, armed with boogie boards borrowed from my parents’ garage. Their mother and I followed. We weren’t moving quite as quickly, but we were still eager to get in there. In Maine, you seldom get good waves, warmish water and nice weather all at the same time, and we wanted to take advantage of the optimal conditions."

Click here to read the whole thing.

Over at the DG, I write about my trip to Vermont last weekend, and my stay in an octagon-shaped house in the middle of a field.

Here's an excerpt:

"Shortly before I was due to visit, my friend Heather emailed and asked, 'How would you feel about sleeping in a small octagon house while you are here?'

Immediately, I was intrigued.

Who wouldn’t want to stay in a small octagon house? Are there actually people out there who would reject such an offer? I tried to imagine how such people would respond to Heather’s email. 'Sorry,' they might write, 'but I only stay in square houses.'

My friend Heather, her husband and their two young children live in Virginia, but for three weeks this summer they are staying in Vermont’s remote Northeast Kingdom.

I visited them there once before, when they were renting a small wooden house for the winter, and although I was impressed by the solitude and beauty of the place, I could also feel myself going a little stir crazy after a mere 24 hours. It snowed constantly, and just getting to the house entailed snowshoeing a quarter mile up a gently sloping unplowed field, pulling a sled loaded down with luggage behind me.

Things were much different on this trip."

Click here to read the whole thing.

I remember it very clearly. It was a step into manhood. It meant I was grown up. I was seven years old. We were all at my aunt and uncle's house for Thanksgiving. My uncle and my grandfather had been whispering to each other all day. Finally, after dinner, while my mother and aunts were cleaning up the meal, they brought me down to the basement. They brought me over to a work bench. I could see the case sitting on top. My heart barely stayed in my chest, I was so excited. My eyes quickly caught sight of a small, square, white and red box. I had seen boxes like that lying around another uncle's farmhouse. I could not believe I was going to actually be given one. All my friends would be so jealous. I finally could go out with my cousins and uncles and father down at the farm. My grandfather could finally bring me up to camp.

“Now Keith, you must promise us that you always respect and understand the importance of what we are about to give you.” My uncle explained. He spoke to me as if I were on adult, severe and stern. “Your grandfather will show you how to clean it, load it and shoot it, and clean it again ...”  Turning to my grandfather. “The scope will probably need to be sighted in. What does his mother say about all this?”

“We will let him tell her,” my grandfather grumbled. “She will take it out on me, but his father goes out, it’d be good for the boy.” 

I vaguely heard the conversation. I was so in awe as I was shown how to load it, where the safety was, how to hold it, always point it away from people, never point it at people, this is for hunting only, it is not a toy, this is how you hold it, now let us take it apart and clean it.

It was an hour or so before we came up from the basement. “Where were you guys?” my grandmother said accusingly, glaring at my grandfather, she could see his smirk, she knew what was done. 

“Mommy, mommy Bee and Uncle Bob gave me a twenty-two. If I practice real hard, they will take me hunting next year.  Maybe dad will too, isn’t that great.....?”

I remember seeing the fear on my mom’s face. 

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In the summer of 1994, I lived in a 1940s one-bedroom apartment in Columbia, Missouri. It had a front porch with a chair swing. I never saw the other three housemates, maybe because I parked in back and they parked on the street. It cost $265 and I never met my landlord. It did not have an AC but it had a claw foot tub and hardwood floors. It was a coveted place to live among my graduate school friends.

In May and June, I suffered through the unbearable heat of mid-Missouri. You have to understand that Missouri is a place with only two seasons. Spring and fall both last for about one month. The air is charged. At night I would lie in my bed sweating, listening to the heat lightning in the charged but silent atmosphere. It was still. Even though I put my bed in the cross-draft of two windows, there was no wind.

I stayed in town that summer because I had no better option. I needed to be somewhere else. I had classmates in Cedar Falls, in Saginaw, in Hays (Kansas) and Jasper (Indiana). We were living through a unique lens. We wanted to go where the pictures were. Usually that meant going to a place where there was so little in the way of news that the editors were glad to fill their pages with pictures of county fairs and profiles of local pastors. No news meant there was plenty of time to work on picture stories. This was the early 90s. My classmates from college were embarking on careers in New York at precisely the nadir of the stock market. Many would become millionaires merely by being in the right place at the right time. Did they see the future of internet bubbles and real estate bubbles? I did not. I saw a bright future with a camera and only as many possessions as I could fit into my four-door Saturn.

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Like many people, I've been thinking about guns in the wake of the mass shooting in an Aurora, Colo., movie theater.

It's no fun to have a gun pulled on you, as I can attest, having once been mugged at gunpoint. I was lucky - the gun wasn't fired, and the man who mugged me eventually ran off. Even so, close encounters with death - and the instruments of death - are difficult to put out of your mind.

Over at Gawker, my Oberlin classmate Kiese Laymon has written an essy about his encounters with guns. Like me, he hasn't forgotten these experiences.

Click here to read Kiese's piece.

Over at the DG, I write about the shootings in Aurora, and how I remain committed to seeing the new Batman movie.

Here's an excerpt:

"I have not seen 'The Dark Knight Rises' yet, but I will because I am a moviegoer and I go to movies like that.

Like everyone, I was pretty horrified by the murders at a screening of the film in Aurora, Colo., and I quickly emailed my friends Dave and Melissa, who now live in Denver but used to live in Aurora, to check in and make sure everything was OK. I then emailed another friend, a neuroscientist at the University at Colorado, to ask whether she knew the alleged shooter, who was studying neuroscience at the school. My friend replied that he worked down the hall and that although she didn’t know him “everybody else did.”

By my estimation, this put me about two degrees away from an alleged mass murderer, which is way too close to comfort. But I have little to complain about — my friends are fine, and my family is fine and I’m fine. The same cannot be said for the victims and their friends and families, and my heart goes out to them, just as it always does when something like this happens.

But I am still going to see 'The Dark Knight Rises.'"

Click here to read the whole thing.

Over at the DG, I write about my three-month-old niece, Kenzie, and also my unruly garden.

Here's an excerpt:

"I spent some time with my 2-month-old niece Kenzie over my vacation, and here’s what I can tell you: She has really bonded with the chandelier in my parent’s living room.

Every time she saw that thing, she gazed at it and smiled and made funny baby noises. With the exception of my mother, she seemed far less interested in her human relatives, refusing to look my father in the face and becoming increasingly distraught whenever I held her. I’m trying really hard to make this kid like me, but she seems bound and determined to resist my charms.

And I’m already getting blamed for the baby’s bad behavior. At one point, Kenzie was acting particularly cranky and stubborn and my sister said, 'She gets this from her aunt.' Which didn’t seem quite fair to me. From what I can tell, the baby is way more interested in lamps and windows than anything I ever do. And she clearly has a mind of her own."

Click here to read the whole thing.

In my column at the DG, I continue pondering whether people are too busy, this time by reflecting upon my sometimes-hectic vacation.

Here's an excerpt:

"I spent my weeklong vacation at my parents’ house in Maine, and when I set out for my trip it seemed like I had all the time in the world.

Of course, this was something of an illusion: About an hour after I arrived, I dashed off to a barbecue for a bride-and-groom-to-be, and then on Saturday I attended their wedding in Portland, which was followed by a very nice reception where I got to eat Taiwanese wedding cake for the first time. Which is, by the way, the best wedding cake I’ve ever had — like angel food cake, but lighter, with a lot of whipped cream and berries.

On Sunday I got up early and went to church, which was followed by the world’s best lobster roll, from Red’s Eats in Wiscasset (the hour wait is worth it), and a stop at the nearby botanical gardens. Monday was spent hiking in New Hampshire, but on Tuesday the schedule relaxed a little. Until I glanced at Facebook and noticed that an old high-school friend, who lives in Miami, was also vacationing in Maine. We exchanged messages, and around 5 p.m. I set off for York to see my friend, meet his 6-month-old baby and eat lobster. The next morning my parents and I traveled to Rye, N.H., for a Fourth of July party with friends I hadn’t seen in a long time.

The rest of the week was, thankfully, free of events."

Click here to read the whole thing.

In my pre-vacation column at the DG, I reflect upon graduations, which I generally enjoy.

Here's an excerpt:

"I once considered my high school graduation the happiest day of my life.

'You’re beaming,' my friend Amy observed, as we waited for the procession out to the football field to start.

It’s true: I was beaming.

I just couldn’t believe that the day I’d been looking forward to for four years was finally here.

The ceremony itself was hugely enjoyable, as was the build-up.

There was the obligatory quoting from 'Oh, the Places You’ll Go!' by Dr. Seuss, the controversy over whether there should be a prayer (there was), the celebratory letting off of balloons, which some of us refused to do because of concerns over pollution and the potential harm to wildlife, the signing of yearbooks and the vote for class song."

Click here to read the whole thing.

Over at the DG, I write about my fear of getting arrested for crimes I didn't commit, for crimes I didn't even realize were crimes, and for crimes that aren't crimes now, but are likely to becomes crimes in the future. 

Here's an excerpt:

"I’ve always feared being accused of a crime I didn’t commit.

And I don’t think I’m the only person with this fear.

There’s an entire subgenre of films devoted to this fear — thrillers such as 'North by Northwest,' about an innocent man who, mistaken for someone else, is pursued across the U.S., and 'The Fugitive,' about a surgeon wrongly convicted of murdering his wife. And the list of convictions overturned as a result of DNA testing continues to grow.

Deep down, I know my fear is ridiculous.

I’m a law-abiding citizen, for the most part. My greatest crime is speeding, although I did drive around for nearly a decade without a front license plate. I don’t steal, and when a cashier accidentally gave me an extra $10 in change the other night, I gave it back. I pay my taxes, and I make sure that my car is inspected each year and that the registration is up to date."

Click here to read the whole thing.

I'm moving out, which means real estate agents and potential tenants are tromping through my apartment daily.

And my resentment about these encounters runs higher than the January utility bill that they're always asking about. I've been in their shoes, the tenants looking for a new place. It's stressful and I don't blame them for the irritation I feel at having people enter my home.

But I do feel territorial about my space.

I'm a mediocre housekeeper, preferring to ignore mess and dirt until it becomes borderline offensive. Who wants to clean up every day? Certainly not me. But I feel shamed into doing it now, wiping up the sink daily and taking out the garbage before it starts to smell and vacuuming faithfully each week.

But sometimes I rebel against it with passive-aggressive defiance, leaving a few cat hairs in the sink rather than rinsing them out, or ignoring living room clutter or dirty dishes in the sink. I reason that these people are inconveniencing me, so I'll show them how unimportant they are to me.On the occasions when I think rationally, I realize that if I made the apartment look really nice, someone might take it and then everyone would leave me alone until I move out. But I haven't worked up the motivation to do it yet; instead, I've found reasons to justify my anger.

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Over at the DG, I write about what happens when idiots strike.

Here's an excerpt:

"The other night I got home from work in time to go for a bike ride, and I immediately headed down to the Corning Preserve, where I picked up the bike path that runs along the Hudson River.

As usual, the path was crowded with walkers, in-line skaters and bikers. Most of them seemed decent enough, with the exception of two young men who made hostile barking noises at everyone who rode or walked by. 'What is wrong with these people?' I wondered. On my second trip past, I was tempted to stop and ask them why they were barking at people.

'Why are you making barking noises at everyone?' I imagined myself asking. 'What’s the point?'

For a brief moment, I wondered how the young men would answer the question. Would they make an attempt to explain themselves ('We’re jerks, having fun at other people’s expense'), continue barking or react violently? I couldn’t tell, and so I left them alone. My bike ride continued in relative peace until I reached the amphitheater, where I got to see a group of knuckleheads unleash an aggressive-looking dog on one of the Corning Preserve’s many rabbits.

'What is wrong with these people?' I once again found myself wondering, as the terrified rabbit bolted into the trees by the riverbank, the dog hot on its heels."

Click here to read the whole thing.