Finally, we've found a good use for coal!

This story goes all the way back to our time in Steamboat.  One day, while waiting for our beautiful, angelic wives (ahem) to get ready, Paul and I lounged on the couch of our condo and watched The Learning Channel.  Because that's what we do, Paul and I, we learn.  Sponges of knowledge.  Sponges with beautiful wives.  It's a charmed life.

We watched an hour-long special on coal-fired pizza in New York City.  Then and there, the hamster in Paul's head started running really fast on its exercise wheel.  The twelve-watt bulb above Erik's head flickered on.

A few days after we all parted ways in Steamboat, Paul turned to his beautiful wife and said, "Dear, I have a plan.  A good plan.  We will go to New York City, and there we will embark on a pizza tour!"  And so they did.

Jeannie (aka Mom) and Paul traveled to New York City, and with their fearless guides (Erik and Katy), they found coal-fired pizza.  They found it first at Totonno's.  They found it again at Grimaldi's.  They thought about finding more, but something about "clogged arteries" told them not to.

So, to the point.  Coal-fired pizza is really good.  Really, really good.  Everyone's had "brick oven pizza" or "wood-fired pizza" or "frozen pizza" or "cold pizza" or "leftover pizza" or "delivery pizza" or "pizza rolls" or "pizza pockets" or "bagel bites" or "pizza flavored dog treats."  But there are only a handful of places where you can get actual coal-fired pizza.  Why?  Because burning coal inside probably isn't that safe or healthy.  In fact, it's actually illegal in New York City, save for the few places that have been doing it long enough to be grandfathered in.

Why is coal-fired pizza so good?  Theories abound.  Maybe it's the super-intense heat.  Maybe it's the short cooking time.  Maybe it's the slightly-charred edges.  Maybe it's just made with better ingredients.  Maybe it's more expensive, making it seem better.  Maybe she's born with it.  Maybe it's Maybelline.

My theory?  I think it's the dusting of carcinogenic ash that comes free with every pizza.

After completing two important legs of the New York City Coal-Fired Pizza Tour (the NYCCFPT, for short), we all agree - coal-fired pizza is the best.  There is no substitute.  Not that fake-tanning Papa John with his 'better ingredients'.  Not that midget Little Caesar, who should go back to making salads.  Not Pizza Hut, with its Quaker State on Crust recipe.  Not Domino's with its melt-some-cheese-on-cardboard-and-deliver-it-quick-so-they-won't-know-better scheme.  Not Little Jim, Caesar's midget friend.  Not Papa Murphy, who doesn't even cook his pizza.  Not Totino. . .actually, his pizza rolls are pretty good.

So, anyways, vote Coal-Fired in 2008.
 

Would you walk across this bridge for some coal-fired fun?  We did.

Waiting in line at Grimaldi's.

Santa Claussen's Coming To Town!

Well, here's a holiday that Hallmark didn't invent. Pickle Day!

Did we go? Absolutely.

Did we love it? Darn right we did.

Did we eat lots of pickles? Duh, of course.

What was the weirdest thing we ate? Pickled green grapes. (Not bad.)

What was the grossest thing we ate? Pickled beets. (Seriously, why do beets exist?)

What was the best thing we ate? Cookie dough. (Okay, not exactly a part of Pickle Day, but it was nearby.)

What was the other best thing we ate? Kosher Dill on a Stick.

The Roof, The Roof, The Roof!

Where do you party when you don't have a back yard?  or a front yard?  when the sidewalk is already occupied by thirteen newspaper boxes, a guy selling knockoff purses, and a fruit stand?  when your apartment seats three. . .uncomfortably?  when bars charge $6 for Bud Light and $12 for the ever-manly Appletini?  when bowling costs $15 a game. . .plus $5 more for shoes?  when the closest Chuck E. Cheese is across one river and one state line?  when the closest beach is covered in medical waste?

On the roof, of course!

That's what we do here in NYC.  We have parties on top of buildings.  It works really well, too, except for the pointy buildings.

Most of you know Katy and I well enough to know that we don't throw parties (understatement of the year), but we do on rare occasion get invited to them.  So, we recently went to our very first rooftop party.  It had all the makings of a great rooftop party - food, drinks, people, and even a roof!  The weather was perfect.  People had fun.

This particular roof is situated in the Lower East Side and features an amazing view of the skyline - the Financial District, Midtown, the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, Brooklyn --- pretty much everything worth seeing.  We watched the sun set, which doesn't happen often when you live in a five-story building surrounded by 40-story buildings.  Astonishingly, considering Manhattan is one giant light bulb, we actually saw stars. . .only seven of them, mind you, but they were stars.

Sadly, we do not have any pictures from this party, which is a shame, because the best part was the view.  So, I just borrowed someone else's picture from the Internet.  I should point out, though, this picture is from the exact opposite direction and was probably taken from a helicopter or a blimp.  We see blimps here a lot.

Sticks and stones may break my bones. . .

Walking the streets of New York City, you see lots of strange things, crazy people, and weird happenings. You see so many oddities that you begin to forget they aren't normal. Your entire weird-normal calibration goes totally haywire. Every now and then, though, you see something genuinely perfect - something that couldn't be better scripted in a movie - so you just have to blog about it. . .

It's a weekday morning in early August. I descend two flights of gray stairs, backpack hanging from my shoulders, and push open the heavy front door of my Upper East Side walkup. I expect the normal rush of humid, pungent air. Instead, it's fresh. It's cool and dry. I look up, expecting to see haze or clouds. Instead, a wash of blue. It's majestic.

As I do every morning, I stand in front of my building and ready my iPod for the trip to work. I plant sound-proof earbuds firmly in each ear, set my magic little jukebox to 'shuffle', and brace myself for what might come. This is usually the scariest part of my day. With whom will I share my first thirty minutes of consciousness? Will it be Jimmy Buffet, Billy Joel, or James Taylor? The regulars. Will it be Chantal Kreviazuk or Michael Bublé? My wife's music. Will it be Eminem or Jay-Z? Always an interesting start to the day.

Journey. Don't Stop Believin'. Nice.

I start walking west. I've got cool, dry air, a cobalt blue sky, and the best rock-ballad of all time telling me to keep on believin'. It's going to be one heck of a day. I'm wearing my comfortable Nike running shoes, so there's extra spring in my step. Why shouldn't there be?

I turn south, rounding the corner onto Second Avenue. As I walk alongside the highrise apartment building at the corner, with its sad, gray brick, I notice a fellow early-riser walking towards me. Late 30's, female, athletic. She's evidently walking home from the gym, in an unnecessary hurry, wearing workout clothes and a hint of flush redness in her cheeks. She talks, very animatedly, on her cell phone. Judging this book by her cover, I would say she carries more than a hint of attitude.

At this point, the world goes into slow motion. The only thing moving at regular speed is the soundtrack - still Journey, as I've only trekked two minutes from my apartment. The lady and I converge. We aren't more than ten steps from each other, still moving in slow motion. She talks fully with her hands, face, and mouth, as if the person she talks to is right in front of her. I can't hear what she says into the phone. I can't hear the cabs and buses rushing by. I can't hear anything but Journey. I certainly can't hear the flutter of pages as a book falls through the air and then - WHAM! - smacks this woman on the head. Assaulted by the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe.

Immediately, the world jolts back into normal time. It occurs to me that there is no established social protocol for when a 600-page paperback falls from the sky and hits a fellow pedestrian square in the head early on a weekday morning. I smile at the lady, thinking that she must be as amused by this as I am. Perhaps, just through eye contact, we can share a moment - the moment Edgar Allen Poe jumped out of a Manhattan apartment and landed on someone's head - probably the first time this has ever happened in the history of the world. I continue to smile and expect a smile in return, or maybe just a look that suggests, "did you see that?" This apparently is not the proper social protocol. She is not amused.

I still can't hear anything but Journey, but I can read this woman's lips as she talks into her cell phone, frozen in the exact spot where she met poetic justice.

"Oh. My. God. A book. Just. Hit. My Head."

I stop long enough to decide if I want to take the book or not. I decide to leave it. I continue walking to work. My day can get no better.

HOLY HANNA MONTANA!

Tropical Storm Hanna is here!!!  

It's rainy, it's windy, but by golly, we're having fun.

Our Most Loyal Reader!

Our trip to Colorado would not have been complete without spending time with our most loyal reader - Grandma Simpson!  That's right - she might be 80+, but she surfs the 'net like a 20 year-old!

Upon arrival in Colorado, we were treated to an amazing brunch at Grandma's house, where we then spent a wonderful day.  She even sent cookies and GMA's ***famous preserved peaches*** to the cabin with us.

After the wedding weekend in Steamboat, we saw GMA again before heading back to the Big Apple.

With love to our most loyal reader,

Katy & Erik

Steve, Andrea, and Paul take the plunge!

On Saturday, August 9th, cousin Andrea and new-cousin Steve kissed on top of Thunderhead Mountain in Steamboat, Colorado.  They kissed in front of 150 people!  Can you believe that?  They kissed for like ten seconds, and from where I was standing (less than five feet away), it looked like their mouths were open.  They even let people take pictures of them kissing!!  I mean, seriously, what has this world come to when people can stand on a mountain and kiss in front of anyone who wants to watch??  

I should note that in addition to the infamous mountain-kiss scandal ("Kissgate"), Steve and Andrea also dressed to the nines*, took five-thousand pictures, invited all of their friends and family, said a bunch of gobbledegook** about love and commitment and forever, filled everyone with food and drink and cake, then made everyone dance way past their bedtimes.  The outrage!

(Warning: In the next paragraph, "K&E in NYC" will briefly deviate from its strict policy of nothing-but-humor-or-at-least-attempted-humor.)

Steve and Andrea's wedding, including the entire weekend of festivities, was simply wonderful.  While the weather in Steamboat could have been a bit drier - okay, it could have been a lot drier - the rain did stop long enough to allow for a beautiful outdoor ceremony on top of Thunderhead Mountain, followed by one heck of a party.  Steve and Andrea are perfect for one another, and there is no question that they have years of fun and laughter ahead.

(Resuming standard policy.)

While Steve and Andrea "took the plunge" that day, the biggest plunge of all was taken by Paul.  In fact, Paul took two plunges.  That morning, the four of us (Jeannie, Paul, Katy, and I) thought it would be fun to try Steamboat's alpine slide.  For you flatlanders that don't know what an alpine slide is, it derives from everone's favorite Winter Olympic event: the one-man luge.  Instead of ice and blades, though, the slide is made of fiberglass, and the sled runs on wheels.

Alpine sliding is not meant to be difficult.  Unlike real luging, there is no full-body spandex, no push-start, no running on ice and jumping onto a careening sled, no leaning, no turning, no helmets, and they don't give out medals at the bottom.  I don't even think there's an age limit.  The only thing you control is the brake, which is a single lever situated between your knees as you sit on the sled.  To operate: push to go forward, let go for a gentle stop, pull back for a screeching halt.  Somehow, Paul missed these instructions. 

For our first run, Paul and I started together for a friendly race down the mountain.  As we began our descent, I thought to myself, "Hey, Paul's never driven a car faster than 27 miles an hour, so I'll just take it easy and wait for him at the bottom."  Wrong.  Before I finished that thought, a Paul-shaped blur was two turns ahead of me, disappearing into the trees.  I didn't see him again until halfway down the mountain, when I passed him trying to get back on his sled.  I thought to myself, "Paul must have stopped to take a potty break."  Wrong.  When we met up at the bottom, I could see from the missing skin (knees, hands, elbow) and melted polyester jacket (seriously) that Paul had taken a fall.  If you were paying attention above, you know that this should not be possible.

We took the lift up for a second run.  Not wanting to lose any more skin, Paul noted his intent to "take it easy this time," which he did.  Three turns into our second run, I was comfortably in the lead, and I thought to myself, "Well, good, he's really taking it easy, so he won't fall this time."  Wrong.  I got to the bottom and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And, finally, he rounded the last corner - going two miles an hour - and made it to the bottom.  He had done the impossible.  He had fallen on the alpine slide.  Twice.  

Then we went to Wal-Mart for bandages and ointment.

With love,

Katy & Erik

* The phrase "dress to the nines" derives from "to the nine", a phrase used in 18th Century England to describe high standards or perfection.  It is unknown when the phrase first was used to describe clothing or a manner of dress, but it was no later than the mid-19th Century.  Theories abound as to the significance of the number nine, though the Internet has not yet reached a consensus.  (See also: Cloud Nine, The Whole Nine Yards)

** "Gobbledegook" is a real word.  I know this, because the dictionary says so.

Takin' a float at the 'Boat

The second half of our week in Colorado was spent in Steamboat Springs, where we took part in all of the fantastic festivities surrounding the wedding of Andrea (Erik's cousin) and Steve (Erik's new favorite cousin-in-law).  A quick recap. . .

Wednesday

 - Steve, Andrea, and Erik cause general discomfort at the county courthouse by asking too many questions about the Colorado 'first-cousins-can-marry' law.

 - The wedding party causes general discomfort at the local hot springs by wandering around (in the pitch dark) asking "are you nude?"

Thursday

 - The combined families at the wedding set a new Routt County record for volume of margaritas consumed before noon on a weekday.

 - Approximately forty wedding guests float down the Yampa River on tubes, while Christine (mother of the bride) opts to go freestyle after losing her tube thirteen seconds into the ride.

 - The combined families continue to pursue Routt County records for liver damage at Sunpies.  (I guess we got that Olympic spirit!)

Friday

 - The various men at the wedding who actually manage to wake up on Friday morning play something that looks approximately like golf at Steamboat Golf Club.

 - Due to a bit of sprinkles (read: deluge) and a light breeze (read: gale-force) and a touch of lightning (we saw Benjamin Franklin), the wedding rehearsal that was supposed to occur on top of Thunderhead Mountain takes place at the bottom of Thunderhead Mountain.  Why, again, do they call it Thunderhead Mountain?

 - The combined families continue to set Routt County records for alcohol and barbecue consumption at the Steamboat Smokehouse and Steamboat Yacht Club.

Don't worry - not ours!

Nastia Liukin has nothing on Erik!

Fake-reverend Erik playing fake-drunk reverend Erik.

Cascade Falls - Indian Peaks Wilderness

We've still got lots of blogging to do about our trip to Colorado before we can move back to NYC stuff. . .

The day before we drove west to Steamboat for cousin Andrea's wedding festivities, we went hiking in Indian Peaks Wilderness.  This particular hike, from Monarch Lake to Cascade Falls and back, is a favorite of the Simpson clan.  Katy and I have made the hike together at least three times, and she complains less every time!

To the relief of the three of you who read this, we'll let the pictures do the talking. . .

Will someone please honk a horn up here?

Katy and I recently returned from a wonderful week in Colorado. We spent the first half of the week at the Simpson family cabin, followed by four fun-filled days of festivities in Steamboat for my cousin Andrea's wedding.

The first night spent at the cabin - situated on the north shore of Lake Granby in Grand County, Colorado - was rather unsettling. Do you know how hard it is to sleep without the comforting sounds of cars whooshing by? Horns honking at all hours? Reggaeton music blasting from the building across the street? Do you know how annoying it is to wake up to the barely audible sound of a hummingbird flying overhead? I mean, seriously, can someone just make some freakin' noise up here???

Oh, and don't get us started on all of the open space and lack of crowds. I mean, everywhere we went, there were open fields, big lakes, and uninhabited forests! The grocery stores had friendly checkers and no lines. When we did (finally!) see a person, they said things like "hello!" and "How ya doin'?" and other creepy things like that. And they smiled. Weirdos.

Please don't even mention the prices. Seriously. Four seventy-five for a double cheeseburger? Get real. Those things should cost twelve bucks. Everyone knows that. Three bucks for a pint of beer?? Must be fake beer. Twenty bucks to rent a canoe for two hours? I mean, seriously, I can rent a two-foot remote-controlled sailboat for four times that in the park back home! Four dollars for a gallon of gas? I can get two sticks of butter for that!!

Well, since I'm already on this rant, I'll go ahead and say this. . .fresh air is *so* 19th century. No wonder the people up in the mountains are so weird. They don't get their daily allotment of carbon monoxide, and they've probably never known the joys of smelling a city coated in dog urine on a warm, humid day!

Despite all of these things, we managed to have some fun. We scampered up the hills and rock outcroppings across from the cabin. We sat out on the deck and enjoyed the beautiful view, the peace and serenity, and the sounds of nature. I played a round of golf at the local course with Katy as my caddie. We paddled a canoe around Grand Lake. We played cards. We had hamburgers and beers at the Lariat Saloon. . .which is probably the best place ever. We had ice cream cones. We played horseshoes. In the words of Tony the Tiger, it was Grrreat!

With love,

Katy and Erik

Look closely for the streak of white (next to sign) -- that's the golf ball.