Recently in City Life Category
I finished my first day of orientation for the new job. I'm completely burnt out on paperwork, forms, and overload on all the web applications we have to use for time, billing, expenses, etc. I'll get it, that's all I keep telling myself. Ended up grabbing some dinner with a co-worker at the big gay sports bar uptown to watch some of the Buckeyes.
I'm having more and more fun taking pictures. I'm completely shocked.
The NYPost's Page Six Magazine had a facinating article yesterday (though there is no damn online link to it that I can find which sucks) on desktop junkies or what kind of drugs, prescription and otherwise, are being popped by the 'average New Yorker'. Now given that this is Page Six, I'd expect it to be a bit...sensationalized, and even though they presented the eight people as randomly selected, I'm sure it was probably a group of people who all knew and referred one another so the scientific merits of true randomness are completely debatable. That being said, I was struck by the narrative that went along with each bio.
The thrust of the story was each person keeping a one week record of every pill they took, whether over the counter, prescription (theirs), prescription (someone elses), or non-legal. There was an equal distribution of men and women, all between 26 and 33 years old, with a variety of jobs such as lawyer, model, graphic designer, writer, etc.
In each case, every person was on at least one anti-anxiety/depression med, usually Lexapro, with 3/4 of the people on a second or third and had been for years. Several of the people were taking additional prescription meds almost daily for migraines, one for a UTI, or other medical conditions. A few were taking really strong meds or had scored some pain meds from friends or associates and were taking them with their evening cocktails or in the case of the chick with the UTI who couldn't drink while on her antibiotics, took some SOMA when she went to a party to get high. There were additionally, an assortment of over the counter supplements, vitamins, etc. I especially liked the guy who was taking a three-day anti-cold/flu prevention remedy because he'd "been on a coke binge all weekend".
I was just kind of dumb-founded at the roster of things everyone was taking and even living here, it was hard for me to step back and think it wasn't actually a good sampling and had tons of error built in. But the non-scientific part of me just sat back and thought...WTF? Is this the young go-getters of NYC? It almost seemed to creep up on me how backwards and middle-America I felt reading it, because I just didn't connect to it at all. It's just not me. So I did a quick mental calculation of my drug use in the past week and came up with 1600mg of Ibuprofen on Sunday through Wednesday which dropped to 800mg on Thursday and Friday, and then nothing over the weekend (I'm still in my cast after my surgery last month). We were out for dinner both on Friday and Saturday but no one was sharing prescription narcotics with each other over wine and appetizers. So again I come back to "who are these people?" in a way that is not so much judgmental but rather just curious as if I'm missing out on something that I should know? When did this all start happening?
I'm still kind of bewildered, honestly.
Jeff and I caught Young Frankenstein at the Hilton Theater Wednesday night and both had to work on Friday after Thanksgiving so plans for what to do on Thursday were pretty limited. Our micro-apartment and galley kitchen isn't anyplace I want to be cooking and quite honestly, neither of us really cared too much. Even if we were able to get upstate to the house for a long weekend, the time away was more about just being away, not putting together a big feast.
So left to our own devices, we concocted a road-trip down to Atlantic City with friends we met on the Big Gay Cruise and spent the day gambling and eating at the buffet. While completely non-traditional, I have to say it was a delightful day spent with each other and friends. We also came home with some cash in our pockets thoughtfully provided by some strategic playing by Jeff. Winning at Blackjack always beats the hell out of losing. Yeah for a new Thanksgiving tradition.
For our date night last night, Jeff and I treated ourselves to the 3D IMAX version of Beowulf and WOW, WOW, WOW. So obviously, the story is the story, loosely based on the actual story of Beowulf. I think Neil Gaiman did a good job with the story over all but it didn't stray too far into unwritten territory. I think the real win for this movie is obviously the advancing technology of CGI-generated characters. Beowulf, while obviously CGI, is one step closer to not being able to tell the difference between real and not...but it's not there yet. Still, both Jeff and I were thoroughly entertained and being able to watch it not only in 3D but on the 7-story IMAX screen was incredible, especially the climactic battle at the end.
And all the naked flesh of Beowulf and Grendel's mother (A very perky, naked Angelina Jolie) was nice.
The 3D immersion technology has really come far and now that you don't have to wear those goggle helmet deals, it's that much better. Here is me in the new 3D glasses waiting for the movie to start:
For anyone's viewing pleasure, I give you the first of the six rapid-fire, high-impact, athletically-focused dodgeball games (12MB, Quicktime) from the Balls of Steel team I started playing on last week. As you watch the AWESOMENESS that is a Gay Playing with Balls, keep this in mind. The game had JUST started one second before the video started. Shutter at my coordination and agility. My new name is The Intimidator. Next game is Thursday night at 8:45 for anyone wanting to see the AWESOMENESS in person.
OMG! We met up with a new spin instructor last night before the class and she's putting together a dodge-ball team for the league here in the city. Jeff totally balked at it, citing horrific issues of 6th grade gym class. I have those exact same issues but I'm SO doing it if for no other reason then to put a stake in that puny, knock-kneed, un-jocked, no-sports-talented, scaredy-cat kid all the other kids in my class used to call faggot. WOOT!
Dodge-ball...I mean, how fantastic. Now if I can just find a kick-ball and mat-ball league I'll be set.
Starts at the end of September. There could be video.
Jeff has warned me off spinning on Tuesday nights because the instructor, Gavin, is suppose to be a real bastard during his 45 minutes of spinning. Under the assumption that Gavin was out teaching at the David Beckham soccer camp or some such nonsense, I went to the class.....only to find Gavin sitting on the bike. He's not leaving until next week. Of course Jeff neglected to mention he's got those hot, humpy, life-long, professional soccor player legs which was just fine with me.
But then he started the class without the air-conditioner, looked at me when I didn't crank up my resistance on the bike (because I was getting ready to pass out from heat-exhaustion and fatigue) and made a "Goddammit, I said crank the resistance" movement AT ME, and then never took a goddamn recovery break for the 45 minutes of the class. I mean...WTF. Why is everyone trying to hock my vagina today? Feh.
Finally, some drama up in our neighborhood. Although I haven't been home yet (and apparently it's going to be like the good old days where I'm walking from 23rd street up to 116th), I'm pretty sure this building is just around the corner from our apartment so Tink and Ding should be just fine but I bet they got the cat pee scared out of them...and then I bet one of the little darlings puked from the anxiety. Such is life with the two girls.
Guy on a cell sitting at the back of the 116th street crosstown bus Sunday night:
"No, no, n*****...he's in jail. Shot her. In. The. Face. I mean, she shoulda known. God rest her soul and all that shit but it's her damn fault. When he told her he was comin' over to kill her, she shoulda packed up those kids and went to the cops. She didn't do nuthin. That's what I'm saying. Stupid bitch got herself killed."
Ain't nuttin better then star-fucking people who really matter. Who doesn't feel like the special kid who gets to play (or in this case, drink a lot with the cool kids out in the smoking lounge) with the big boys?
Woot! The forced reduction of power by the electric company over the entire city yesterday forced those hospitals along hospital row (where I just happen to work) to divert power to their emergency generators, shutting down unimportant things like ancillary elevator service, AC, and those pesky cooling services in IT causing server meltdown. So not only did my staff get excused at noon yesterday (I was a trooper and stuck it out all day), we all have the day off today (though I am a trooper and working from home). When do adults get snow days in the middle of summer? Awesome!
I had to skip watercolor class last week because I was in Boston for work so I was anxious to get back to it last night and walked in greeting the instructor and a guy who hadn't been in the class before. Just like a few weeks ago, this was all about doing watercolors of a nude model though this time, instead of vagina, it was all about dick. Yeah for the gays! Unlike before, I had no internal high-school giggle moment and got right down to work. I kept thinking what it would take to be a nude model for this kind of class and for men, apparently it's a big dick. Who wouldn't want to stand there naked with that kind of sway hanging between one's legs? The kid was nice enough, albeit a bit nervous and less in control of the room then the chick from a few weeks ago (though I figured it out that she held great disdain for everyone in the room which gave her the suitable amount of distance to be in control. This kid was friendly and rather chatty which opened him up to a kind of nervousness).
Ultimately, while my sketches were acceptable last night, I still think I did better work with the female model than this male model. We were learning new techniques last night that I wasn't at all comfortable with (wet on wet has absolutely zero control in my hand) and my instructor was growing bored with my monochromatic washes in blues and violets, forcing me to dump in a ton of secondary and tertiary color that I wasn't really feeling.
In the second of six watercolor classes for beginners I'm attending on Monday nights, I had barely gotten over my debacle of the previous week where I learned that, contrary to my own beliefs, I can't paint, only to be confronted by Vagina. Seriously, nude modeling for beginner students in the second class? Holy fucking shit. And, bang! VAGINA!
On the other hand, the chick was gorgeous in a great curvy way, had great tattoos, and was of some Asian ethnicity, my favorite in gorgeous women, so it was kind of joyful. But better yet, the previous week of failing to create a green, glass bottle from a still life arrangement with watercolors was put behind me and I produced some watercolors last night that I was pretty proud of. Who knew? Vagina makes me creative. Woot!
The very best part of having a teeny apartment in the city is that the kitties are forced to actually pretend to like us and cuddle because there isn't enough room for them any other place. We do like to believe they actually want to shower us with affection, but we both realize to them, we're just walking feeding and watering slaves who brush them in the morning before work. But I guess all parents think this way.
Ohhh....kitty post with pictures. Shit.
So as Jeff was watching "Boston Legal" tonight and I was doing my intro reading for Healthcare Finance, William Shatner's character answers his ringing cell phone and as it flips open, the phone makes the distinct Star Trek tri-coder beeps. Of course I pause the show and jabber almost incoherently to Jeff about the beeps and Star Trek and how William Shatner used to be Captain Kirk showing how it's all connected, somehow.
I've been sent to bed without my supper. Non-geeks are soooooooooo not fun.
Transit strike still on. I'm still walking to work. Music is still pretty good (thought I had to forward through "If I Were A Rich Man" from Fiddler on the Roof because I just couldn't get into the groove). Got on the scale this morning after feeling powerful...and gained a pound. WTF? I'm not walking for my damn health, people. I have to be bathing suit ready by the end of April!
I'm unsure if outside the microcosm of the New York City universe, others who dwell at buildings with doormen and building supers are faced with the holiday problems of greasing hands. In NYC, building people must be greased to get things fixed and done throughout the year. The rub in all this is the decision of how much. Obviously, one would suspect there is a direct coorelation between the amount of money one slips the building people and how fast a light-bulb gets changed and while I don't know for sure, I'd think this is true.
In light of this and because Jeff and I are celebrating our first holiday up in Harlem, we were wondering what, if anything, we needed to do for our Super. Once again, we have discovered the benefits to living in Harlem: Cheap rent, good food, and a Super who'll bend steel for us, now that we stuck a red bow on a case of Budweiser and wished him a Merry Christmas. Seriously. We just greased the guy not with a Ben Franklin but with a case of beer. I seriously love our building.
Day two of the power-walk from 116th Street down to 23rd (somewhere between 4.5-5 miles, I estimate). I'm totally into the groove now and being who I am, that means I'm all about the zeal and excitement of something new so I'm declaring myself a walk-to-work EVERY morning kind of guy. Fuck the subways and buses. Those who know me know that this zeal and excitement will actually only last for maybe one more day. That is unless I start seeing some elusive abdominal muscles which would spur me on for maybe an additional day.
Once again, I'm going to also acknowledge my very good taste in music. This whole iPod-set-to-shuffle thing is totally cool. A little Nina Simone with some Zero 7, Brian Eno, Dirty Vegas, peppered throughout the walk and I was the happy guy this morning. I think I'm either high on endorphins or someone slipped me some crystal meth in the coffee because damn if I don't feel like wall-papering the entire office this morning and then doing everyone's hair. WooHOO!
Who isn't put out over the MTA transit strike shutting down all the buses and subways in NYC? I woke this morning to the news the threatened strike was in fact happening. My two contingency plans were reduced quickly to one when the news reported the MetroNorth lines, while unaffected by the strike, had hour-long waits for the trains. "Fuck it," I told Jeff and put on my walking shoes. An hour and twenty minutes later, I'd walked the chilly 93-blocks from Harlem to the hospital, nose running but no worse for wear. Actually, I do incredible strategizing and planning when I'm walking so I accomplished quite a bit AND burned off an additional 300 calories.
Also, I have renewed my belief that I actually have good taste in music. I set my iPod to shuffle which I never do and was completely delighted at almost every song that came up. Damn but I have a lot of Pink Floyd on it. So today, it's all good. Annoying, but all good.
Why yes, in fact, that was Jeff, Nikki, and myself wedged into the corner audience viewing box of "MARTHA!" during her Halloween show on Monday, having our two seconds of screen time at the seven minute mark as far as the Tivo goes. The tickets indicated we must come in extravagant costume and so we came up with the Three Blind "But Very Tidy" Mice. We had brooms and dust pans instead of white canes. We also had cans of Easy Cheese and fortuitously, after sitting around for several hours we were so damn hungry, Jeff finally popped his top and we were sucking down creamy heaven right there in the shining light of The Homemaker Goddess, Martha The Blessed Holy Mother of All Good Things. Of course that other group dressed as the three blind mice still had their tails (we had bloody gauze pads taped to our asses), had cat-ears instead of mouse-ears, and just weren't as full-out fun as our group. That's why when Martha and Wes were setting up the dining room segment of the show, she looked over at us, pointed and smiled. The world kind of shimmered at that moment.
The bigger secret is that Cameron Matheson who was the guest soap star on the show really does have, as he feared, the skinniest calves. Luckily he's a whole hunka love to look at so it's all good.
I'm starting to get revved a bit about San Francisco. I bought a little guide to help me with general stuff and downloaded everyone's recommendations to my phone. Wardrobe drama has insued but for the most part, minus needing some big black butch boots which I don't have and don't have room for, I'm doing ok. I've never been much of one for knowing what to wear anyway so it'll just have to suit.
I had some last minute shopping to do before I leave for San Francisco tomorrow. Of course not having any idea how those crunchy west-coasters dress, I'm sort of taking a shot in the dark. I've been warned that layering is a must which ultimately just confuses the issue even more so since I have no agenda, it's a toss up of what is appropriate. I've decided to leave wardrobe drama behind and just go with what's comfortable. Unfortunately my favorite must-have Fantastic Four shirt that I've had for years and years has seen its day so a quickie slide down to Jim Hanley's Universe got me a month's worth of my comic titles (including the promising new "House of M" series) AND some new wardrobe. It's not that I'm such a huge fan or that I think the movie is going to rock, but it has a certain vibe so it's all good.
I also lied a few posts back during the book meme. The last book I read wasn't Lives of the Popes, but was actually Freakonomics which was EXCELLENT. So excellent that I can't believe I forgot that I read it. If you have any interest in learning the extent to which teachers lie (hi Max!) or why abortion has had the single greatest impact on reducing the crime rate, pick it up.
For anyone who hasn't followed my incessant bouts with insomnia over the years and wondered why, as a health-care professional, I didn't self medicate, I have this to say: the better half of our gruesome twosome is an addiction specialist so how stupid would I look getting hooked on the juice? That being said...
About two weeks ago, when I was just starting my long, accelerated burn into uncontrollable manic-anxiety over Finance, I coaxed myself into several midnights of reading and problem-solving but with a six-thirty wake up call the next morning for work, the only thing I could think of was to take some Benadryl to get some sleep so I did. And slept soundly until the alarm went off the next morning (and consequently, woke up with a dry nose and unclogged sinuses so whadda ya know, I have allergies). Not to ever pass up a good thing, I've been taking Benadryl now every night and sleeping clear through undisturbed.
Of course no one gets addicted to Benadryl, but the fact that I have been sneaking them for the last week so Jeff didn't find out (but like, duh, he knew anyway) does kind of indicate my guilty conscious is growing psychologically dependent on them. Or at least that's what I've talked myself into so last night I opted to go Benadryl-free just to prove that I could.
Then in a fright after a night of tossing and turning which really revved up into high-gear when I started playing footsie with the kitty under the covers, I caught a wiff of the foulest, most purulent stench that really shouldn't have come from any living creature on God's green Earth. In my semi-sleepy haze I instantly deduced that I'd scared the kitty so bad by playing footsie that she'd completely shit herself at the end of the bed under the covers. Knowing how anything of this nature sends Jeff over the edge (though the kitty hadn't ever done anything like it before), I was considerate enough to manically shake him awake screaming, "The kitty shit in the bed! GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!" while trying to untangle myself from the sheets while not getting cat-dookie smeared all over us at the same time. And the stench kept getting worse every time I lifted the covers. Strange how that happens.
Jeff meanwhile, used to my early morning crazy talk, sort of rolled me over and told me it was OK and to go back to sleep. I argued for a second about the kitty poop but he just patted me and told me to go back to sleep which I did all the while saying, "That's not right. It just isn't right at all".
It was this morning when we got up and I had flung back the covers sure to find a well-smeared pile of cat crap that Jeff admitted the vanilla shake I'd mainlined into him at dinner the night before really didn't agree with him gastronomically and it was very possible, while not finding the conclusive poop really anywhere under the covers, he'd just ripped a foofie that I caught wind of.
And so I'll say it again: That just isn't right. At. All.
I got whacked by a car yesterday morning on my way in to work; clipped b y a driver who was making a left onto 23rd street as I was using the crosswalk. I'm basically intact but fuck if I'm not sore all over. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse so I'm kind of feeling like the glass is half-full about the whole thing. My iPod, though, is cracked to shit so that's kind of sad. I'm sorta glad it's my iPod and not me, though. My ACL is roughed up a bit so for those uninitiated brethren, if I tried to walk in heels right now, my right knee would feel like it was going to snap and break inward. Awkward to say the least so I'm going to stick to sturdy sneakers and avoid high-couture, even though it's the start of Fashion Week.
I have to say, for as quick as everything happened, the actual tag was all slow motion. No flash of my life passing before my eyes, just standing up one minute and the next laying in a dirty puddle of water in the middle of 23rd street. I could pretty much tell I was OK right away but I'm sure everyone thinks that until the look down and realize their legs are on backwards. In my case, though, it was true and I was fine...better then the lady who whacked me. She kept trying to hug me in between her bouts of hysterical panic. Then the cops showed up along with an ambulance and fire-truck (I know, I still can't figure out the fire truck) but ultimately, I was trying not to be a wiener and just wanted to brush myself off and get on my way. It's a testament to what a neurotic care-giving personality I am because I was trying to calm the lady down and actually called her later in the day to see how she was and to confirm I was fine.
So today I'm sore as fuck but glad to be around to complain about it. The timing was really bad, though, since Jeff has been out of town all week, far away and I could imagine getting killed and no one knowing about it for a while. Not sure what kind of a Plan B we have to put in place to overcome that kind of problem except to make sure the cats have enough water and food for a couple days. Anyway, it's all good, and I'll heal. As I told the cackling ladies at the 13th precinct when I went into find out about filing a report (a longer story that ultimately ends in being manipulated out of doing it the right way by cops at the scene), I'll know better what to do the next time I'm run down by someone.
As it is painfully slow here at work this week, I opted at the last minute to take off Thursday (besides having the official New Year's holiday on Friday), to have a nice long weekend. My boss thought it such a good idea that he asked me to take Wednesday off too! Score!!
Now I hear the 'thrum, thrum, thrum" of Warcraft in my ears.
I was chatting with Barnes today and I confessed something to him that I’d rediscovered about myself last night as I was walking home from the pedicure that ended up costing me $75. The pedicure wasn’t the confession, although it did set me on the deep thinking path about myself. It started with, “Why am I the kind of person who just keeps saying “yes” instead of “I’m sorry, I can’t understand what you’re saying” to the nice lady shaving the calluses off my heel with a razor?” and by the time I was past the Bergdorff Christmas windows, which are as sumptuous and sophisticated as always, I was rediscovering the self-realization that I will never be a New Yorker. I’d come to this conclusion late in the final year before our move to the country and now that we’re back in the city periodically, the notion remains. Even if I was moneyed and connected, I would still be that mid-western boy from Ohio; naïve, percolating anxiety and simmering embarrassment at the slightest social foible, geeky in sort of a boring way. And it’s not self-loathing or low-self esteem but just an identification of where in the metropolis’ strata I reside. And so that is how I fit into the New York scene.
To underscore this very idea, I went to my first WYSIWYG Talent Show playing in the lower East Side. It was never an area we ever spent much time in when we were in the city but it was so beautiful tonight with strands of white bulbs zig-zagging from tree to tree over the streets, funky, expensive boutiques in closet-sized stores, and darkish bars and restaurants with a few people leaning in to whisper to one another. It’s colder than fuck right now in the city so I was all bundled up, sniffling and just enjoying the hell out of my slow prowl.
The Talent Show was an all musical holiday special and it was my single social thing I had planned for this week. My very large paper due tomorrow on supply chain revision is already 1000-words over the upper limit so I put the kabash on it for the evening, scrubbed the kootch and tried to pick from the few comfort clothes we have in the apartment something that looked vaguely Lower East Side hipsterish. I failed miserably, ending up looking like a lesbian, but I went anyway. Of course anxious over the idea I might not get in based on past sold out shows, I arrived much too early so I found a great little Ukrainian restaurant and ordered a big bowl of steaming borscht. I chose borscht because as my one and only social outing this week, I wanted it to be everything my regular evening is not, so I pretended to belong down there and ordered wine and a potato pancake, too. The talent show was fun and I got to see Sparky but it was obvious that where I sit in the Blog is much different from where the cool kids are at these days. This site is such a relic of days past, even though it’s coming up on five years in January. Nothing new under the sun, just new shoes. The musical numbers were hip and inspired and witty and of a talented nature so all in all, it was a good night to be part of the city again.
I had, thus far, managed to avoid the Christmas/holiday spirit this year. I was completely fine with that, too, as there is little worse then walking around in some dazed semblance of happy, happy, indiscriminately smiling at strangers and hoping, as one hopes every year around this time, for world peace and blahbbidy, blah, blah, blah. I’m not a curmudgeon in any sense of the word other than I refuse to feel the zeal of the holidays just because merchandisers and retailers tell me to. To this end, I fashioned my own holiday cards this year and opted out of buying hardly any gifts because who needs that kind of worry and stress. It has all worked out mighty, mighty fine on the whole.
Then of course this morning I’m sitting having breakfast reading the Post, almost jubilant at the thought that Scott Peterson and Danny Pelosi are going to get the swift hand of justice they so readily deserve (so sayeth the court of public opinion), and Celine Dion’s rendition of “O Holy Night” comes on and I’m whacked. Totally overcome with the Christmas Spirit. Mother fuck…I mean, come on! How stupid is that? I do admit that an hour or so later, the bubbling, over-wrought emotion is subsiding a bit but it’s obvious that I’m going to get out of it this year all together. I guess that’s fine and it is not going to change my view that justice, in some cases, can be swift, blind, and karmic. It does put a rosy glow in my cheeks though and raises my toleration of the artic air descending on the city today, people walking slow in front of me, and assholes who bring their babies in big-ass strollers on the subway at rush-hour. OK, not so much the last one because there ought to be a common decency law about that one, but whatever. I hope when I sneezed on them yesterday they caught this bitch of a cold I have. So not totally overtaken by the Spirit, but close enough, I suppose, for all intents and purposes. Happy Holidays, Everyone.
In a post-haze of Nyquil and Benadryl, I forced my germy, disease-riddled body out of the apartment this morning in search of...something other then the apartment walls. I ended trolling up Lenox Ave to 125th street, passing the most amazing side streets of gorgeous row houses. Harlem gets a lot of bad raps but it's like one of those great New York things, you just have to look a little closer and you find some real treasures.
Unlike my prior rant about the lack of good coffee up in this neck of the woods, I did happen to find, to my surprise I'll admit, a very serviceable and cozy Starbucks up on 125th which led me to have a delightful Sunday morning with the Times and a Chai Latte, watching all the fancy-dressed people meander to church. I could very much get used to this.
Just heard that "Steel Magnolias" is coming to Broadway in the spring and Delta Burke is taking the role of Truvy. I mean, could we buy tickets yesterday?
Fuck. What's the point of having an apartment in the city to cut out the commute and sleep in in the mornings if I'm going to wake at 2am anyway? At least I'm starting to decipher this strange G4 notebook I've inherited.
I love corporate mottos, but being who I am which is a pissy, see-I-told-you-so, kind of guy, I love when bad customer service completely invalidates well-intentioned, very expensive corporate mottos. Here's where I start to blog about all the shitty things in Manhattan so hold on to your hat.
You can do it. We can help...but, not in Manhattan. Call me crazy, but I know that I shouldn't have to go outside of the greater New York area to get a fucking piece of 2x4 cut down to 26 1/2 inches. However apparently I do since the quizzical looks I got from the HD information desk clerks, all turned out and snooty, told me what I should have suspected as soon as I asked for the piece of wood.
"We don't cut wood."
"Say what?"
"We don't cut wood here."
"Here as in Home Depot, You can do it, we can help?"
"We don't cut wood."
I have fucking seen the limit now. Home Depot and you can't get a piece of wood. I guess I might understand if I was asking for some kind of endangered Amazon jungle rainforest wood but I was asking for a run of the mill 2x4. Honestly, I'm going to have to actually leave Manhattan, the city that has everything, for a $0.55 piece of wood. Unbelievable.
We officially moved into the city last night. The last of the major stuff was organized (though we're still missing a couch) as were the cats. They still aren't speaking to us this morning and one has passive aggressively puked a hairball onto one of my shoes to underscore their mutual displeasure at being uprooted. Honestly, the majority of our conversations about the cons of this move have all centered around the inability of the cats to be able to adjust to four days in a larg-ish one bedroom in the city. And it's not like these were outdoor kitties up at the house. They were housebound but just had three floors to run around and play in AND we'll be back there for 1/2 of the week. I've completely hit my limit with them (and I'm typically a patient, animal-concerned kind of human) and I'm completely OVER coddling these cats and their delicate feline sensibilities. I'm totally going to be murdered in my sleep for admitting that out loud but it's true. No more discussions about how we're psychologically damaging the kitties with the move. I have three words for them at the next bad attitude demonstration: Burn. Pile. Kitties. Look it up.
And speaking of pussies, while I know it will sound like a cliché, there was some women in our building who spent the better part of the evening getting the hell banged out of her last night. I know this because her window was open and she was letting the city know. Loudly. It was comical the grunts and moans floating down to our place and when we'd go to the window to see if we could figure out who it was, you'd see the silhouettes of the other building tenants at their windows doing the same. That's something I'm going to have to remember: bite the pillow during dirty monkey sex if I don't want the neighbors to know our sha-zizzle.
It was everything to stay up until 11:30 last night, get up at 6am with a full nights sleep and be to work by 7am. I'm going to love it even more when I leave work at 4pm and walk in the apartment at 4:30. I might even take a nap just because I can.
I would offer up to any who fain concern or anxiety over our return to the City and in particular, to the lofty nether-regions of East Harlem, that there is in fact a re-gentrafication of that part of the world: fewer crack houses and more stores, less crime and more police presence. Of course while there are 7 of the top 10 fast food chains within a one block radius of the new pad (and a Popeye's Chicken with within two), there isn't a Starbuck's to save one's mocha-chocha-latta-haha life. Rest assured Worried Urbanites and others, the Harlem Renaissance has a ways to go yet; Starbuck's will be your harbinger of Arrival. BUT...
Not only is there not a Starbuck's, there isn't any decent coffee shop, either. I'm not a coffee snob in any way and I prove this daily but re-heating the 7am pot of decaf in my office throughout the day, even going so far as to microwave the last cupful down to a thick, tarry syrup of grounds and the hydrochloric acid used in the decaffeination process. I'm saying I'll drink that coffee whether in a puddle on the floor or off a humpy, hairy man’s back. I do not stand on java ceremony. That being said, when I ask for DECAF, I'm not asking for SANKA. If I wanted reconstituted SANKA, I'd drink the first-flush water after Jeff's morning constitutional. But I don't, I want DECAF. So back to the point, Harlem from where we are down to what I expect is the most northern reach of Starbuck’s Manhattan empire at 96th street is SANKA CITY. Worse yet, on my jaunt back from the bank yesterday morning (had to tip the movers who couldn't get the couch through the building hallway back to our apartment and had to load it back on the truck to take it away), not only did I get SANKA, I got SUGAR with it when I specifically asked for no sugar and said so not once but again, a second time, when the counter guy asked if I wanted it. I'm doing OK with our boozed-up building super who pays the beer-bottle collecting collective a few bucks to help us with stuff around the apartment, but I'm not doing OK without an accessible, dependable DECAF-making coffee-shop.
