Well, we made it through. A little worse for wear, but in one piece.
I had an early night on Friday and was at my job-site bright and early Saturday morning to receive the delivery. Pretty non-eventful, all in all. I managed to hook up with Tim for lunch and bought some Nautica sheets. A sort of tomato soup color. With a vague denim colored pattern. I came home and finally finished Annie Proulx's collection of short stories, Close Range. I read the final story, Brokeback Mountain, in about 20 minutes. Yes, that Brokeback Mountain. Her prose is dry and precise, and her handle on vernacular is remarkable. The story makes explicit all the submerged homoerotic themes not-so-deeply buried in the works of Thomas MacGuane and the films of John Ford. The denouement is, of course, tragic; followed by passages of breathtaking tenderness. I burst into tears reading about a makeshift shrine to lost love. After catching my breath, I read the whole thing again. It's misleadingly simple. I see that a big budget Hollywood movie is coming out shortly, with a couple of young glamorpusses in the leads. I'm not so sure about that. There's nothing pretty about these two characters. The sex is pretty rough and tumble. I'd like to be assured that Ang Lee has not directed an updated version of the old Marlboro cigarette ads. I guess I'll have to break down and see it.
I picked up Tim after work in the evening and we had dinner at one of those old fashioned French restaurants that used to dot Hell's Kitchen. We both wanted cocktails and they let us sit there for a good half hour, drinking Manhattans and sharing pate. Grandmere came out of the kitchen and sat at the small bar to rest her feet and sip her seemingly bottomless tumbler of Dewars. Tim had veal and I had trout, and we were in a pretty fine fettle by dinner's end. Feeling perverse, we wandered around the block to Therapy. We hung out upstairs, leaning against the railing and laughing over the young things pouring forth. We had a friendly bartender who fixed killer drinks and even bought the third round.
Having experienced a surfeit of pretty children, we hopped in a cab and headed over to the Townhouse. From the sublime to the ridiculous, or vice versa. We met some nice gentlemen closer in age to us, had a couple more drinks and poured ourselves back into a cab to my house.
You know of course we were completely hungover Sunday morning. Both of us blew off the gym, though I did manage 150 push ups without my head exploding. Tim went to work and I wandered over later in the afternoon. The first song I played on the new internet jukebox was INX's Elegantly Wasted. I was neither. Met a couple of fine looking young pups. Tim watched amused from behind the bar, and asked me how old I thought they were. I figured they were about 10. Ah, well.
On another note, can someone please explain Orlando Bloom to me? I just don't get it.