I’ll admit it — I’m a New Yorker. I’ve lived here for over a decade post-college, and grew up outside the city. But until now, I have managed to avoid some of the more dramatic and/or dangerous moments — things that, to outsiders, may seem somewhat stereotypical to life here in the Big Apple. Knock on wood, I’ve never been mugged, never had my apartment broken into, never been hit by a cab (I’ve come waaay too close to it for my personal taste, however), never seen a huge roach crawl across my kitchen counter. Wait — that one I’ve experienced.

Today, like many days, I took a stroll to Whole Foods to get some lunch with my co-worker, Colin. We made our purchases, and had just stepped back onto Seventh Avenue, when we heard an incredibly loud pop. We spun around to see, about 70 yards away from us, in the middle of the intersection, a man in a red t-shirt on the ground, surrounded by three men in blue blazers, presumably police officers, pointing their guns at him, yelling at him to stop moving. They shot him at least once when he was already down. One of the officers yelled to the crowd to call 911, and several people did; a man standing near me had already gotten through. Within moments, several uniformed police officers arrived, followed closely by EMS, and oddly, several cameramen and photographers. We stood, transfixed, shocked, stunned, until we had composed ourselves enough to slowly walk back to the office. Colin and I wondered the whole time what this guy could have done to justify the shooting. Was he armed? We couldn’t tell. Was he really struggling after he was on the ground? He’d just been shot; of course he was moving around. I keep checking NY1 to see if there’s any news about it yet, but so far, nothing, except the closeby, yet unrelated fire at Penn Station, which has made my work neighborhood look like a disaster zone. I had never seen someone get shot; someone bleeding through his shirt as he lay on the ground, at least not outside of the movies or TV; I certainly never thought I would see it during the course of a seemingly normal, average day. That is one “stereotypical” New York moment, among others, that I never wanted to witness firsthand.

UPDATE: a link to some news coverage — he did, in fact, appear to be armed.

FURTHER UPDATE: later news coverage reports that he was fatally shot by the police and that the gun he was carrying was an antique-style gun which wasn’t able to fire.

“Here’s the skinny for women on one possible way to keep from getting fat: Stay single. A new study by Texas Tech University says women who live in family situations, households with four or more people, are more likely to be obese than those who live on their own.” [via NY Post]

I am convinced that dating in New York is different from dating in other parts of the world. Let’s do a case study, shall we?

Girl meets boy at her local neighborhood joint, chatting amiably over dinner at the bar, each having brought, but then ignored, their respective reading materials (she, the New Yorker; he, the Economist or some such). Girl’s friends show up, strategically tricking boy to stay for about twenty minutes longer than he initially intended, and to drink more wine (girl’s friends are fantastic wingpeople). Boy invites girl to go see a band on the LES (she has convinced him to go see this particular band rather than the one he initially chose because they rock, and her neighbor’s in it). Girl expresses interest, but politely declines, since it is already 11:45 on a school night. “Some other time, perhaps?” says girl, coyly. Boy and girl exchange business cards and go their separate ways, each going away for the weekend.

Boy emails girl the following week, scoring major points with girl. After polite back and forth email banter about how good the band was, boy and girl agree to go out for a drink, dinner, or possibly even to see another band. Then, the scheduling negotiations begin. The negotiations are frustrated by a) girl’s busy social life; b) boy’s demanding work schedule; c) the impending Republican invasion, during which the girl is getting the hell out of Dodge; d) girl’s trip to the wedding in Wisconsin; e) boy’s business school alumni event on the one night she has free this week and work-related dinner on the one night she’ll be in town between the wedding and the aforementioned escape; f) boy’s current affliction with poison ivy, which he contracted during last weekend’s out of town jaunt; g) all of the above.

Boy and girl plan to go out for a drink in early 2005.

Cewebrity or not, we’ve already discussed the fact that I’m a dork. I sang in an a cappella group in college, I covet strange tecno-gadgets, I think Dodgeball is a fun way to meet up with people, and I write for not one, but two blogs (this one and Gothamist Food). But there’s one more morsel of dorkiness hidden in my past — I went to and worked at a music and arts camp for about six years. Yep — band camp. The Aaron Copland Music and Arts Program (or ACMAP, as we all call it) was a county-run music and arts camp in North Salem, NY. You had to audition or submit a portfolio to get in, and we spent a significant portion of our days rehearsing and polishing our crafts — drama, singing, painting, dancing — you name it. Like any six-week overnight camp filled with 13 to 18 year olds, it was also a blast. I had many of my “firsts” there, like my first french kiss, and the first time I realized that a friend was not worth losing over a guy. That friend, like many others I made there, are still part of my life to this day, and so it was with great anticipation that I went to our ACMAP reunion this past weekend.

Gary & Jen, a couple who actually met at camp and later got married, held a barbecue at their house up in Westchester. It was wonderful to see so many people, some of whom I hadn’t seen in easily a decade, if not more. We came to the shocking realization that, for many of us, our first year at camp was twenty years ago. Twenty years!! Good lord. We got to share stories, engage in revisionist history regarding the stolen van, meet people’s kids, and hear through the grapevine where our fellow ACMAP-ers have ended up. Gary and Jen now have a daughter, who is already forbidden from attending overnight camp. “We know what goes on at camp — she’ll never go!”

You can see the rest of the pictures here. And if you’re a long-lost ACMAP person — shoot me an email!

* Blatantly stolen from American Pie. And no, I didn’t do that at band camp.