After working late Friday night, I grabbed my briefcase from the jobsite and joined in what hundreds of thousands of people do every day.
Now, as a Manhattanite, I can walk to and from work, should I so choose. Or I can ride the IRT a total of one stop. This is emphatically not a commute. When my company re-locates to the Chelsea/Meatpacking District in a few months, I'll practically be able to crawl there.
However, when I was done installing private offices for wealthy people on Madison Avenue and 61st Street, I hopped on the W train to 34th Street, and grabbed the PATH train out to Journal Square to see Tim. It took less than 40 minutes, all told. I didn't even get a chance to finish reading the Times. And I had the opportunity to open Tim's front door and announce:
Hi, Honey, I'm home!!
Tim did his best, and served me a Martini and listened to me complain about my day. How married are we?
Saturday morning I awoke in shock. No grey skies. It was bright out! The sun was actually shining after what seemed a month of rain. I've never been as wet as I'd been in the past few days. One morning I came to work completely drenched, having encountered torrential downpours leaving my house, and again leaving Grand Central Terminal. I actually poured water from my shoes. Even my butt was soaked clear through. Not an especially nice sensation. My apartment, normally not the most weather-tight, was like a damp sponge. And water was leaking down my chimney into a bucket I put in the hearth to catch the drips. What a mess.
We had minor errands to run, but mostly relaxed on Saturday, in anticipation of the party we were attending that evening.
Tim and I wandered through Chelsea that night looking for a suitable place to have an easy dinner, pre-party. We passed RUB (Righteous Urban Barbecue) on 23rd Street, and as it has been highly praised by some A-list bear/bloggers (you know I'm joking on both scores) we thought we'd try it. Well, it was an adventure. It took all my willpower not to stalk out of the restaurant after the first ten minutes. Suffice to say, if I brought any folks I know from Weldon, or Conway or Mufreesboro, North Carolina to RUB, and fed them the Pulled Pork, they would laugh long and loud. Even folks from Rocky Mount and Roanoke Rapids would have a good chuckle at the ridiculous imitation of barbecue this dump serves. If you're desperate or don't know any better, try it. Otherwise....go back to Virgil's or where ever you've been getting your NYC pseudo-barbecue fix. A must to avoid.
Oh, and if you see a little dark haired waiter who can't seem to lift his eyes off the floor as if he's looking for small change, trip him. He sucks.
Our friend Gregg threw himself a stupendous blowout to celebrate his impending 40th birthday. He rented the Lackawanna Railroad Barge, which is moored in the Hudson River at 24th Street and invited a large group of family, friends and an assortment of bear-ish types of all ages. Strangely enough, we all got along. I think that might have had something to do with the open bar which lasted from 9:00 to 1:00 AM. Gregg hand picked the music, and eventually the floor was full of drunken men, shaking their asses. Entertainment was provided all evening by Scotty
The Big Blue Bunny, The Pontani Sisters
and Tyler Fyre
. Among the bears were Gregg, Greg, Mike, Ted, Eric, Erik, Frank, Mark, Mark, Mark and Gustavo. You'd think some of our parents would have had more imagination.
Apparently, Ted has nicknamed me Super Daddy, and all through the evening people were calling me that. When Gregg's sister and cousin both came over and asked if I was Super Daddy, I knew the name was going to stick. I can live with that. It's a whole lot better than other things I've been called in my life.
I really enjoyed Tyler Fyre and his fire-eating, sword-swallowing act. I did have to turn away when he brought out the power drill. It seemed he gave me the once over and some positive eye-contact when he left the stage, which everyone apparently happened to have caught and commented on. Tim suggested that kissing him might be a bit dicey, considering all that kerosene, or whatever it is he ingests and blows sky high. I was mostly thinking about the sword-swallowing aspects.
I drank copious amounts of Maker's Mark, and then switched to Red Stripe. We all were pretty well lubricated. Making out ensued for some of us.
The party was a huge success!
Tim and I headed over to the Eagle for a nightcap and then poured ourselves into bed.
Sunday, I hit the gym, then headed over to the Dugout to meet up with this man
again, and have a beer with him. After he left my evening went speedily down hill. The less said about it the better. I spent a little more than an hour walking around the far West Village, visiting former sites of my youthful glory and fuming. No, Tim and I are not fighting. I was, however, STEAMED.
The bottom line is this: don't be surprised if you see me at some other Beer Blast next Sunday. You New York boys know the one. If you see Super Daddy standing alone in a dark corner, be sure to say hey! I'll be needing all the moral support I can get.