Seen and noted this morning: An old man wearing a ratty Mets t-shirt. Not unusual.

A white shirt reading, “Let’s Go Mets!” in orange across the top.

The Mets round logo centered beneath the text.

The interesting detail: A line of orange Hebrew text beneath the logo.

I have no idea what it said, but that’s what I call faith.

In the not too distant future, (such as today), there will be three kinds of homo sapiens: humans, zombies and cyborgs.

And for the convenience of you dear reader, I will define each of them now:

Human: Basic off the shelf model. Probably has never broken a bone. Less likely to have a tattoo. Any piercings are strictly limited to the ear lobes and singular in quantity.

Zombie: Basic model upgraded with new parts from a cadaver (i.e., the dead). Bones, organs, blood, whatever works better. Parts can be upgraded due to injury or sheer vanity.

Cyborg: Basic model upgraded with synthetic materials. Rods, pins, screws, patches, plates, anything manufactured. Again, parts can be upgraded due to injury or sheer vanity.

Now of course, overlap will occur. You will find cases of Zombie Cyborgs. And Cyborg Zombies.

Me? I’m a zombie. I walk with the dead. In some sense, I am the walking dead. That’s right, step off mofo or I’ll kill you for your dead ass parts. I’ve been trying to get early admission to the transplant list for a while now. No luck.

Seriously, become an organ donor. Someone you love may need them.

(Or it just may be me.)

I’m beginning to think that it is my plight in life to carry heavy objects up great distances. I’ve been known to wonder aloud if I was a sherpa in a previous life.

It’s an interesting demographic that poor people live in flat areas and that as one’s monetary wealth increases, one moves up into the hills. Real estate being the way it is, a room with a view simply costs more.

And naturally, I have been living this demographic reality for most of my life.

In San Francisco, renowned for it’s hills, my first apartment was in a nice flat valley and was, in no coincidence, a poor immigrant neighborhood. (Okay, it was the ghetto. My neighbors were drug dealers and hookers.) As I established myself in the city, I found my apartments gradually climbing up various hills in the city. By the time I left SF 12 years later, my apartment was a Swiss chalet atop a stupendous hill that ruined the legs of many a bike rider and the knees of anyone foolish enough to run down it. I actually saw people training for mountain climbing by carrying their backpacks up and down the hill outside my door.

So as I climbed the real estate demographic ladder, I went from living above the corner market and carrying my groceries up a single flight of stairs to living in the San Francisco equivelent of a quiet suburb and trudging up a massive mountain with only the smallest of items weighing my down. A six pack of beer often weighed as much as a keg as I dragged it up that hill.

Now in New York City, I have found the same demographics but with a distinctly Big Apple spin. Instead of the valleys and flat areas of San Francisco, there are the pre-war buildings and 5 story walk ups. Instead of the house on the hill, there are the doorman buildings and tony elevator high rises.

And so I find myself back at the bottom of the real estate demographic ladder living in a five story walk up. Not the first time, I’ve switched ladders and had to start over climbing from the bottom. It won’t be the last either.

This time around though, I have myself a little 20 pound monkey on my back. A monkey named Archie who is too lazy to walk up the five flights and too scared to walk down them. (Fierce guard dog, that Archie.)

Couple that with a bag or two of groceries, a messenger bag full of papers and a laptop and I find myself considering a career change — to Sherpa.

Obviously, I have experience and although no formal training, I did have several summer jobs moving furniture which taught me the value of taking ones time and lifting with your legs. With a little dedication and oh, I don’t know, an actual exercise plan, I think I’m on my way.

Uh, but if we’re hitting Everest, Archie, you’ve got to walk.

(PS: The San Francisco hills kick ass over the NYC walk ups. I’ve been back several times and I’m completely out of shape by the standards of a pedestrian in SF.)

(PPS: I should note that Archie has recently learned to vault up the stairs two at a time and while he is still stubbornly reluctant to climb them, when does go for it, he’s a snorting, wheezing blur of action.)

Despite all the hours of training, all the treats and all the affection, Archie has turned to a life of crime.

In a sad turn of events yesterday, Archie was busted in Central Park by the Park Enforcement Patrol (PEP) for being in an area where he was not allowed.

And despite the fact that I was holding the other end of his leash, I’m taking no responsibility for his illegal behavior.

As it was a mid-week holiday, we decided to meet some friends for a picnic in the park. Not knowing exactly where we would end up dropping the blanket, my wife inadvertently jinxed us by saying, “It would be just our luck — we’ll get a ticket for the dog.”

At the time, I agreed with the humorous statement. Ha ha ha!

Naturally, our friends wandered right out into Sheep’s Meadow and I stopped at the gate. Sure enough, right there on the sign was the old, “No Dogs Allowed” line.

Did we blatantly ignore the sign? Well, not quite at that moment.

We decided to go find another spot close by that was dog friendly. As we walked about 100 yards away, one of our friends (who shall remain nameless — but who infamously ordered the Jewish Nachos which hurt my stomach) called us and said that there were tons of dogs running around the meadow.

Well, if everyone’s doing it, naturally, we should too. I mean, what are the odds that they’re going to pick us out of the crowd of thousands?

Turns out the odds are very good.

After eating, drinking, talking and playing for about an hour, up roll two PEP officers.

Now, mind you, we’ve been watching people walk their dogs on and off the leash all over the meadow. Archie has remained safely on his leash the entire time and often perched in my lap (mostly to help control his “must destroy Frisbee” mania).

But oh no…Archie is the problem in the meadow. He’s the troublemaker. He’s the bad dog.

The PEP officers inform me that dogs are not allowed and attempt to gather more information from me. In my usual fashion, I play dumb and friendly. Given the crowd we were hanging with — let alone the wife — I’m quite sure that someone else will play the role of smartass and start wise-cracking to the officers.

No, they can’t give us a warning. Yes, if we don’t leave with the dog, they will come back and give us another ticket, etc.

To her credit, the wife does not get up and intervene, but merely tosses snide comments at the PEP officers from the peanut gallery. This prevents jail time for all of us.

The officers tell me that dogs peeing on the grass is a health issue in the meadow as lots of people like to lay in the grass. (Apparently, human urine (i.e., homeless) is not a health issue.)

It is at this moment that I look down and find Archie, in his best “stick it to the man” behavior, peeing on the grass. In fact, he is almost peeing on the leg of one of the officers.

I started covertly tugging on the leash in a futile attempt to stop him, but being a stubborn SOB he just finishes. For all I knew, I was about to get a second ticket for his public urination.

While this is all happening, I looked out across the meadow and watched the other dog owners pack up there picnics and run away. Cowards! Thanks for the support losers!

And so we end up leaving with Archie and a $50 ticket. He’s a criminal. I guess I could actual attend the court hearing and protest his innocence, but I’ve got better things to do (no, really, I do).

Personally, I like to think Archie took one for the team and prevented the entire group from getting individual tickets for public drinking which — as the nice PEP officer pointed out — is also illegal.

…Try A Hammer.

I’ve been saying this trusty phrase for years to express my frustration with inanimate objects as well as my lack of skill in generally fixing anything. I seem to lack not only skill but the patience to focus on the job, the steps, the necessary equipment, etc.

I generally believe a good old whack can often solve a simple problem.

And last night, my beloved wife, in a fit of absolute frustration and desperation, proved this maxim to be quite true.

Here’s the scene: Her iPod (her SECOND iPod, the first one died and was replaced by Apple — always buy the AppleCare warranty people) died unexpectedly. As she attempted to revive it through the various methods outlined on the Apple web site, she naturally grew more and more irate with the iPod’s unresponsiveness.

I should digress at this point to note that she is notoriously unlucky with electronic equipment of any sort. At this point, we’re almost convinced that she gives off dangerous EMF levels that tend to fry electronic circuits. So when her second iPod died, it did not send me into a rage. I took it as par for the course and figured we’ve move on to iPod number three.

But back to the story: As she grew angry at the stupid MP3 player, Apple, the internet and subsequently me (calmly petting Archie and sipping scotch in ambivalence), she began to take drastic measures.

First up, shaking the iPod furiously. No effect. It was still dead.

She returned to the web for advice, unplugged, plugged, restarted, on, off, etc. No luck at all.

It was at this point that she broke and resorted to banging the iPod against the wall — fairly hard — about 10 times.

And lo and behold, the iPod came back to life! Like electronic CPR, she had restarted it’s little heart through violent concussion.

Now, I’m still betting on us getting her a third iPod, but for the time being, I have a happy wife with a working iPod.

And proof of the old saying I’ve been repeating for years: “If you can’t fix it with a screwdriver, try a hammer.”

So yesterday was the official start of summer and while the calendar may be scientifically correct, I tend to notice the arrival of summer by two other events.

The first way to know it’s summertime in NYC is that the subway platforms escalate to unbearably high temperatures. Combine the blistering temperature with the dank underground humidity of the seeping drainage water and you find yourself sweating while standing perfect still. For a person who read way too many fantasy and science fiction novels as a child (such as myself), the summertime subway becomes the stuff of myth. A dark, putrid cave whose heat and humidity are obviously caused by the demonic lava that flows beneath the tracks fueling the trains as we orc-wage-slaves shuffle and push towards another scrap of food in our daily toil to please an unforgiving Over Lord.

In many parts of the world, the subway platforms are air conditioned. Now, I’m not crazy enough to call for that kind of humanity. After all, the NYC subway is over 100 years old. An industrial sized fan is all we really need. Please.

The second event which signifies the arrival of summer in New York for me is a small change in my routine as I climb up the five flights of stairs to my apartment. Instead of just toiling up the stairs as usual at the end of the day, I find myself stripping off my clothes piece by piece, floor by floor as I head up with the rising heat. By the time I reach my apartment on the top floor, I’m half naked and it’s all I can do to unlock the door and prostrate myself in front of the air conditioner and it’s cooling goodness.

In many parts of the city, building common areas are air conditioned. Now, I’m not crazy enough to think that I’ll ever be able to afford to live in one of those buildings, but heck, who knows? I play the lottery. After all, if my landlord has the gall to leave trash in the hall outside my apartment — from the previous tenant — for two years and then to send me a note asking for me to remove it, I’m not thinking their concerned about the health and well being of their tenants.

The vast majority of cubicle-sized apartments in NYC are blessed (and cursed) with hard wood floors.

In many of the cities I have lived in, this is a very valuable attribute in an apartment. It’s a sign of prestige and something to be proud of, something to brag about, something to show off.

Archie does not agree.

And he’s winning me over to his side.

(Not that I ever had enough prestige in my wallet to afford hard wood floors before I moved to NYC. And even the fact that we have hard wood floors now is a fluke.)

While hard wood floors are great for cleaning up dog puke, they tend to collect fur into large tumbleweeds which wander around looking for trouble. Couple that with a down filled couch and large masses of feathers and fur appear under our furniture. Guests think we leave dead birds just lying about. (We don’t. We eat dead birds. Especially ducks.)

And no amount of sweeping will ever keep pace with a shedding Archie/feather couch combo.

Having spent his young life amidst this chaos on the floor (often of his own creation) and being quite lazy, Archie runs into a problem I have experienced in the past.

Hard wood floors are just not that inviting when one wants to lie down and stretch out. And if one has an itch on one’s back, the problem is compounded.

Which means that when Archie gets to work, a place filled with nice scratchy carpet, one of his favorite activities is to roll around on the carpet. I like to call this behavior “turtling” as his legs flail around wildly, but it has been compared to a seizure of some sort (which it is not).

As you watch these videos, bear in mind that Archie does this of his own accord with no training (ha!), prompting or even any recognition by us at all.

Freak.