Something About the Moon and NYC
by Guest Blogger Tender Buttons
I went to NYC last weekend. I hadn't been there since a high school trip in '93 or so. That trip was fun--we had no trouble buying 40s and got to stay an extra two days because of a blizzard. This time I was going to meet up with Ron. I met Ron ages ago when we were working at the same firm in DC but since he lives in London I don't get to see him much, and hadn't in three years.
I took Amtrak up there. People kept suggesting I take the Chinatown Express because its a lot cheaper and has a free movie (usually one that is currently playing in theaters) but I've had enough Greyhound experience to be wary of buses and I wasn't sure I was up for that kind of adventure by myself. Once there, I hopped in a cab to Chris's place in West Village. I had never met Chris before but he's the swell kind of chum that lets his friend stay for a week and then invite an additional stranger (me) for a couple of those days.
That night we went to an oyster restaurant whose name I can't remember. I don't eat seafood--not one little bit. But surely there is at least one non-fishy item on the menu, right? No. I had caesar salad and french fries. But I wasn't complaining. Cause I was also having a celebrity sighting! Those of you who know me, know that I follow celebrity gossip like others follow sports and that I was hoping to see someone famous while I was there. Sitting not four feet from me was Wallace Shawn. You probably don't know the name, I didn't. But you'd recognize the guy--short bald old guy who was Vizzini in the Princess Bride, and a million other things. He kept blowing his nose in his napkin.
After dinner we picked up a bottle of Sapphire and headed for Chris's roof. We weren't there long when it became apparent that his neighbors were getting it on. We couldn't see much, chuckled, and let the happy couple have some privacy. Shortly after, the girl decided to take a rest. By the window. With the lights on. And all we could see, directly in our line of vision, was this bird's crotch. Framed in the window. For two hours. Not that we were staring for two hours, but someone would glance that way every once in a while and say, "yup, still there."
The next day Ron and I took a walk through Times Square. He reveled in the large variety of Fuck tee shirts for sale. "Quit Fucking Looking at Me" "I Don't Give a Fuck" "Go Fuck Yourself" All quite charming. I told him about the "I Fuck Like a Girl" shirt Reb got me that I think is cool, but can't ever bring myself to wear in public. I got Gideon an I Heart NY onesie and some ugly lighters for my own collection. I would've totally got Gideon a "Not My Fucking Problem" onesie but they didn't have any in his size.
We got some cupcakes at Magnolia, the only bakery I've ever been to with a bouncer at the door. Good, maybe a bit too sugary with the icing. We had dinner at Florent in the meatpacking district Sunday night and I felt very hip. I'm going back way sooner than 2016, I'll tell you that.
Are my posts too long? Not "sincere" enough?
posted by RL @ 12:09 PM
9 comments
9 Comments:
Very sincere TB. Very Sincere.
You should've gotten Gideon the T-shirt anyway as he'll undoubtedly grow into it, lit'rally and fig'tively.
Don't tell me that this is part of the yet to be defined "New Sincerist" movement. If you want the truth, your writing is a new kind of naval gazing because it really doesn't engage anything. Most people don't care much about the details of your life, if they have a life. Have you seen Laurel's blog? She explores things. I like that. That is sincere. You know, when you realize that you're fucked up, contradicted. That's sincere. The rest is personal...a ledger to a dead mind. Hopefully it isn't dead but reviving from a long winter.
Man, tough crowd. Reb might have some regrets about asking me to guest blog since there is a vocal group that thinks my writing sucks and is attributing it to her.
I'm a lawyer, not a poet. Don't fret, I'll be back to my day job soon. And I may be contradicted, but I think I'm far less fucked up than a lot of other people. Moderately fucked up at most. And I'm not letting the masses delve too far into my psyche--if you don't like the conversational details, skip 'em!
Tender Buttons
Somehow I missed this the first time around. I only found it when I decided I had to figure out what snarky comments were left.
I do have to wonder how one can follow celebrity gossip (and by extension, I would think, the entertainment world) and not know Wallace Shawn's name. But then, my head is filled with generally useless little tidbits like that. I filled up on Wallace Shawn when I tried watching "My Dinner With Andre". An unsuccessful attempt, I'll add.
Anyhow, despite the celebrity gossip I follow, I often wonder how many celebrities I'd actually recognize if I saw them on the street. Wallace Shawn would be easy. But would I recognize Jennifer Aniston if we crossed paths? I have my doubts. I doubt she goes out looking like Rachel.
I'm leery of getting Caesar's salads at fish places. I've always assumed I'd get chopped up little fish in my salad dressing.
Hi, I'm an anonymous blowhard. This may sound mean, but it is realistic. I'm also a pompous ass who likes to write about things "reviving from a long winter". At least I really engage myself when I write this masturbatory baloney, if you know what I might be saying.
What can you say? About me and my overblown self-image, that is. If only you had the benefit of my opinions, you would see the true meaning of the New Sincerist movement. And Christmas. And know who it was that put the bop in the bop shoo bop shoo bop. Verily I say unto thee, stop gazing at yon navel and gaze upon the brilliance of my words!
I hate to break it to you Greg, but you're always getting little chopped up fish in your caesar salad dressing. For some reason I can handle that.
Wallace Shawn loves seafood.
TB
If you get a true Caesar, sure, you're getting anchovies. Eat them in non-fancy places, and you're unlikely to find any fish in them. Unless something other than anchovies are what you're suggesting.
I'm basing my assumption on the one time I made caesar salad from a cookbook--only time I've ever purchased anchovies.
TB
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