Every Picture Tells A Story
It's been a long week and it's only Monday.
I started work at the new office on Friday morning, as scheduled.
My new commute involves taking the L train two stops from Union Square to 8th Avenue. I haven't taken this line much in the past 20 or so years, not since Robert and Barry were at Columbia Presbyterian hospital. My, how things have changed. The former Toonerville Trolley has become a gleaming caravan of hipsters, on their way from Williamsburg to their glamorous careers in the Meatpacking District. I feel positively dowdy. The artfully tousled hair, the ingeniously applied makeup....and that's just the boys. Luckily, the ride lasts all of about three minutes, and I'm off in search of coffee and breakfast.
Of course, the new space was not in anywhere near move-in condition. After surveying the wreckage, I popped half a Valium and got down to work. I'm about two thirds closer to being able to actually work, as of 6:00 this evening.
Of course, last weekend flew by. It seemed to be Friday night and then Sunday night. I hate that.
I completely collapsed on Friday night when I got to Tim's house. We had our usual quiet night, crashing pretty early. And we slept in the next morning, not arriving back in the city much before 5:00. We did a couple of minor errands and came back to my house, where Tim took a nap for an hour or so.
When he got up, I fixed us a couple of Manhattans, and we listened to a cd that Bryce & Neil burned for us. Tim's eyes lit up when he heard the Caravelles. He knows I'm just a fool for that big, echo-y Phil Spector kind of pop. After that, I played some Crystals and then Laura Nyro. Two cocktails later, we jumped on the train and headed up to Hell's Kitchen. We had such a fun time the week before, we went back to the scene of the crime.
Posh was our first stop. The man at the door didn't card us, remarking that our grey hair was proof enough. Indeed! The bar was fairly quiet to start off, which allowed us to get a couple of drinks under our belts and watch the DJ. Our first conversation was with a gentleman who allowed me to park my jacket on top of his. When the conversation turned to the Dugout, as it often does, he mentioned that he'd visited, but the beer selection on tap wasn't up to snuff. In fact, after the past 7 years of living in Europe, he couldn't possibly drink American beer. ZZZZZ. I dispatched this bore, post haste.
We headed around the corner to Therapy, which was completely packed, had a drink and made use of their commodious bathroom. It's a more pleasant option than waiting in line at Posh and enduring dirty looks from the DJ, when you lurch into his lectern, as one of us may have done.
The evening ended back at Posh with a bunch of sympathetic young men, one or some of whom were from Manchester (UK, that is) and a very pleasant fellow called Owen, I think. It gets rather fuzzy here, but I do recall dancing with him, if you can call grinding my pelvis against his dancing. When I told him I had to take Tim home, he suggested I come back later. Sweet. I was snoring in the back of a cab minutes later.
Sunday I hit the gym and then the Dugout. A nice crowd, all in all. Some bloggers, some old friends, some guys I'm just getting to know. The jukebox was on the fritz and Tim was playing some cd's I burned a couple of years ago, when the old jukebox died. There were some songs I hadn't heard in a while, and I jumped around a bit. A clever young man came bounding up to me and announced that he had written the song I was just enjoying, and complimented me on my excellent air guitar skills. I had noticed him when he arrived at the bar, and had even commented on his appearance to a friend. We introduced ourselves and I asked Emerson (yes, that was his name) what year he was born in. 1978. In fact the song in question is from an album that was released in 1971. I was in high school. I congratulated Emerson on his superior prenatal songwriting abilities, not to mention his excellent opening gambit. I also told him that my beard was older than he was (September, 1975). Needless to say, I was charmed. He graciously accepted a big hug, and a kiss or two. I get kissy after a few beers, and after several, I'm downright amorous. You'd think Tim would keep me on a leash or something.