27 September 2005
Fifty glorious years
Congratulations to Famous Author Rob Byrnes, who today celebrates fifty glorious years of bloggery, or something like that. I'm very touched that Rob would not only think of me but also mention me in his blog on this very significant occasion in the life of the Internets.
23 September 2005
Crazy
My subway ride to work on a Friday usually involves getting my teeth into some juicy theatre gossip courtesy of Michael Riedel in the New York Post. Michael can be quite deadly in his commentary. Today, however, death threats were directed at me. Perhaps it was payback for something I wrote last week about being on the subway. A black guy, who was sitting opposite me, decided he didn’t like the look of me, and started making threats to “murder” [that’s the word he used] me. Here we go again, I thought to myself. This sort of thing happens all the time.
There’s run-of-the-mill crazy, which I encounter a lot because this is New York, and then there’s dangerous crazy. I sensed that he fell into the latter category, so I threw caution to the wind and said loudly in my most disparaging tone, “Did you forget to take your meds this morning?” Well, you can imagine! That really set him off. I haven’t heard so many references to c*ck sucking since I was in Coney Island.
What some avid and regular readers don’t know about me is this: in my first hour in New York, on my first day in America, I was accosted at gunpoint and mugged. Since that happened, I resolved never to take snash from anyone ever again. It’s just as well I’m not armed and dangerous.
There’s run-of-the-mill crazy, which I encounter a lot because this is New York, and then there’s dangerous crazy. I sensed that he fell into the latter category, so I threw caution to the wind and said loudly in my most disparaging tone, “Did you forget to take your meds this morning?” Well, you can imagine! That really set him off. I haven’t heard so many references to c*ck sucking since I was in Coney Island.
What some avid and regular readers don’t know about me is this: in my first hour in New York, on my first day in America, I was accosted at gunpoint and mugged. Since that happened, I resolved never to take snash from anyone ever again. It’s just as well I’m not armed and dangerous.
20 September 2005
MetroCard Mayor
I'd heard that it could happen and this morning it did. Hizzoner Mike Bloomberg, Mayor of the City of New York and I shared a subway platform (like everyone else who uses the subway on a regular basis, he leaned over the edge of the platform to see if the train was coming) and were in the same subway car for the ride uptown from 23rd Street to wherever he got off north of 42nd Street. Isn't it amazing what keeps me amused.
19 September 2005
Another day at the beach
This follows on from It was no day at the beach part i and part ii.
I’ll skip the long and fascinating part about meeting up with Angel at the ungodly hour of 11.00 am on Sunday, and go right to… well read on and you’ll find out. You might even enjoy some of it. Don’t blame me if it doesn’t work out for you. I just write the thing.
We’d gone through exotic train stops such as Avenues N, P, U and X, but there didn’t seem to be an Avenue Q. I was sure that the puppets who perform in the Tony Award® -winning best musical of 2004 were simply creations of the show’s writers and technicians. I now take a rather different view, because there was an Avenue Q -type puppet on the boardwalk at Coney Island, performing with the assistance of his human handler. I guess he auditioned for the show and didn’t get a call-back. He needs to find a new agent, or better yet, a new handler.
As we ventured down the boardwalk, we were amazed by the number of women who were wearing high heels. It’s a surefire way of ruining a pair of shoes and getting a twisted ankle. Angel assured me he never wears high heels on the boardwalk. I regarded him and raised an eyebrow. Hmmmm.
I generally avoid sunbathing due to my decidedly Scottish complexion, so it became an urgent necessity to find sunscreen if the day was not to end in tears. Chances were of that the day would end in tears anyway, like it often does after having a ‘good lunch’, when the evening concludes with my being tired and emotional. But that’s a whole other baggage. Angel offered his lotion-of-choice, an oily substance designed to turn skin into a human version of pork scratching. It came with the warning “contains no sunscreen”. I declined.
At a Brighton Beach pharmacy we purchased what we hoped was a small bottle of high factor sunscreen, though we couldn’t be absolutely sure what it was, due to our abysmal ignorance of the Russian language and Cyrillic in particular. Lotions at the ready, we ventured forth. The beach, like real estate, is entirely location, location, location, and so we spent a goodly amount of time finding a prime spot, and made camp. Our first task was to attend to skin by applying the appropriate lotions. Angel coated himself in cooking oil.
“Shall I sprinkle you with some rosemary?” I asked helpfully. “How long do you cook for? Twenty minutes a pound?”
Angel replied, “I’m like one of those turkeys that has the little plastic thing that pops out when the bird is cooked. I’ll pop when I’m ready.”
I resisted making any comment on that, offered to baste him later, and began attending to my own sunscreen needs. I poured a small blob about the size of a quarter into my hand and started to spread it over my left leg. It seemed that that one small blob would be enough to coat my entire leg, which was now completely lotion-white. Soon my previously-exposed skin was coated in white mud. There was no way any rays were getting through that mud pack. Or so I thought. (By next morning I had second degree burns on my lower left leg.)
A handsome young Russian arrived and set up camp directly ahead of us. Thanks to cell phone technology, he was able to keep in touch with his important life off the beach, but we became concerned that his ability to communicate was interfering with our urgent need for him to dress down. After about fifteen minutes he ended his call and removed his shirt. Yummy. Just as things started to look up, his phone rang. “Will he never get off the phone?” I asked Angel. “You just want to see him in his Speedos,” he responded. “You got that right,” I conceded. Eventually the call ended and he revealed a beautiful pair of Russian legs attached to a perfect body. And, yes, he was wearing Speedos. We enjoyed the view for about five minutes, when, wouldn’t you just know, the phone rang again. Seconds later, our Russian friend with the legs and the body and all the right attachments, began dressing at high speed. He packed and went tearing off in the direction of the boardwalk. That must have been quite a phone call!
“I hope it wasn’t bad news,” said Angel.
“Bad for us,” I grunted with disappointment and applied another thick coat of white mud.
Angel rolled over and I basted him some more. He’d be ready to pop soon, I thought, and that was something that should be recorded for posterity using the digital camera that I had brought with me. I fumbled with it as the sun beat down. “I can’t see anything in this light... oh, there you are,” I said and pushed the button. Angel then tried taking a picture of me. Neither of us could figure out how to view the images. Several days later, when I downloaded the pictures, I discovered that we had actually taken video of each other, which ended we pressed the button. Duh!
Angel had told me several times that Brighton Beach was ‘Russia with a Mexican twist’. I knew exactly what he meant when we witnessed a gentleman from south of the border who had had such a ‘good lunch’ that his two companions had to support him physically in his efforts to walk from the beach. He’d also had an unfortunate accident that was evident in his crotch area. Or perhaps he’d simply spilled his drink into his lap. As the Mexicans made their way off the beach, who should come driving along in a beach buggy but two of New York’s finest. Timing is everything. Instantly, the two supporters disengaged themselves from their friend, who then struggled to stay upright. He looked as if he didn’t know which way was up. The beach buggy came to a stop and the policemen asked if there was a problem. Happily, as our Mexican friends were heading homeward, the nice policemen did not make an issue of the encounter, and the merry trio staggered off.
Time had marched on with a steadiness that our Mexican friend did not possess, so we decided to rinse, dry and refresh. Angel found a beach shower and I insisted that he go first. “Eeoww, it’s so cold!” he screamed as he sprayed water from a shower that seemed to be designed for use during a drought. Just before it was my turn, a couple of old Russian gentlemen arrived and helped me by making sure there would be a constant spray of cold water. It’s wasn’t horribly cold and it soon felt refreshing. I looked down into the sandy pool of water in which I stood. The water was white. The lotion that I had spread over my body was being diluted and had formed a white pool. No matter how much water was sprayed on me, I was still covered in white stuff, to the great amusement of my Russian helpers. After a while, I gave up and dried off because getting to a bar/restaurant was now the top priority.
As a result of careful research the previous week, we knew what was available nearby, so we decided to give Tatiana a try, if the waiting staff could give the correct answer to out first question. “Is the bar open and when does it close?” we demanded of the maitre d’. “It’s open and will stay open for as long as necessary,” she replied. We recounted our experience of the previous week at Winter Garden. The maitre d’ couldn’t believe it. Neither could we at the time.
Our waitress approached and said, “There’s a fifteen dollar per person minimum.”
“Don’t worry; we’ll be here for a while. We’ve got a lot of eating and drinking to do,” Angel assured her.
We ordered food and drinks and settled in for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the opportunity to people watch.
“Look. More high heels,” said Angel pointing out a couple as they passed by.
“Oh, dear!” I said. “I don’t care for his girlfriend’s shoes either.”
The food was unquestionably excellent to the point that it made us thirsty, so we forced ourselves to have several more drinks. We then had no hesitation in making food recommendations to the couple at the next table who seem convinced that I was South African. White South African. Extremely white, but about to turn pink.
There were many other things that went on that I could set out here, but why bother. That’s what I’d be thinking if I were you. It’s been no picnic writing this and I can only imagine the hardship of reading it. So I’ll finish up and say that the next exciting adventure involving Mark and Angel will be about Little Italy because we’re just about to meet up and go there for some sort of thing that’s happening. That’s all I know for now. Catch you soon, dolls.
UPDATE
We didn't make it to Little Italy but will probably catch some of that culture during the week. Watch this space.
I’ll skip the long and fascinating part about meeting up with Angel at the ungodly hour of 11.00 am on Sunday, and go right to… well read on and you’ll find out. You might even enjoy some of it. Don’t blame me if it doesn’t work out for you. I just write the thing.
We’d gone through exotic train stops such as Avenues N, P, U and X, but there didn’t seem to be an Avenue Q. I was sure that the puppets who perform in the Tony Award® -winning best musical of 2004 were simply creations of the show’s writers and technicians. I now take a rather different view, because there was an Avenue Q -type puppet on the boardwalk at Coney Island, performing with the assistance of his human handler. I guess he auditioned for the show and didn’t get a call-back. He needs to find a new agent, or better yet, a new handler.
As we ventured down the boardwalk, we were amazed by the number of women who were wearing high heels. It’s a surefire way of ruining a pair of shoes and getting a twisted ankle. Angel assured me he never wears high heels on the boardwalk. I regarded him and raised an eyebrow. Hmmmm.
I generally avoid sunbathing due to my decidedly Scottish complexion, so it became an urgent necessity to find sunscreen if the day was not to end in tears. Chances were of that the day would end in tears anyway, like it often does after having a ‘good lunch’, when the evening concludes with my being tired and emotional. But that’s a whole other baggage. Angel offered his lotion-of-choice, an oily substance designed to turn skin into a human version of pork scratching. It came with the warning “contains no sunscreen”. I declined.
At a Brighton Beach pharmacy we purchased what we hoped was a small bottle of high factor sunscreen, though we couldn’t be absolutely sure what it was, due to our abysmal ignorance of the Russian language and Cyrillic in particular. Lotions at the ready, we ventured forth. The beach, like real estate, is entirely location, location, location, and so we spent a goodly amount of time finding a prime spot, and made camp. Our first task was to attend to skin by applying the appropriate lotions. Angel coated himself in cooking oil.
“Shall I sprinkle you with some rosemary?” I asked helpfully. “How long do you cook for? Twenty minutes a pound?”
Angel replied, “I’m like one of those turkeys that has the little plastic thing that pops out when the bird is cooked. I’ll pop when I’m ready.”
I resisted making any comment on that, offered to baste him later, and began attending to my own sunscreen needs. I poured a small blob about the size of a quarter into my hand and started to spread it over my left leg. It seemed that that one small blob would be enough to coat my entire leg, which was now completely lotion-white. Soon my previously-exposed skin was coated in white mud. There was no way any rays were getting through that mud pack. Or so I thought. (By next morning I had second degree burns on my lower left leg.)
A handsome young Russian arrived and set up camp directly ahead of us. Thanks to cell phone technology, he was able to keep in touch with his important life off the beach, but we became concerned that his ability to communicate was interfering with our urgent need for him to dress down. After about fifteen minutes he ended his call and removed his shirt. Yummy. Just as things started to look up, his phone rang. “Will he never get off the phone?” I asked Angel. “You just want to see him in his Speedos,” he responded. “You got that right,” I conceded. Eventually the call ended and he revealed a beautiful pair of Russian legs attached to a perfect body. And, yes, he was wearing Speedos. We enjoyed the view for about five minutes, when, wouldn’t you just know, the phone rang again. Seconds later, our Russian friend with the legs and the body and all the right attachments, began dressing at high speed. He packed and went tearing off in the direction of the boardwalk. That must have been quite a phone call!
“I hope it wasn’t bad news,” said Angel.
“Bad for us,” I grunted with disappointment and applied another thick coat of white mud.
Angel rolled over and I basted him some more. He’d be ready to pop soon, I thought, and that was something that should be recorded for posterity using the digital camera that I had brought with me. I fumbled with it as the sun beat down. “I can’t see anything in this light... oh, there you are,” I said and pushed the button. Angel then tried taking a picture of me. Neither of us could figure out how to view the images. Several days later, when I downloaded the pictures, I discovered that we had actually taken video of each other, which ended we pressed the button. Duh!
Angel had told me several times that Brighton Beach was ‘Russia with a Mexican twist’. I knew exactly what he meant when we witnessed a gentleman from south of the border who had had such a ‘good lunch’ that his two companions had to support him physically in his efforts to walk from the beach. He’d also had an unfortunate accident that was evident in his crotch area. Or perhaps he’d simply spilled his drink into his lap. As the Mexicans made their way off the beach, who should come driving along in a beach buggy but two of New York’s finest. Timing is everything. Instantly, the two supporters disengaged themselves from their friend, who then struggled to stay upright. He looked as if he didn’t know which way was up. The beach buggy came to a stop and the policemen asked if there was a problem. Happily, as our Mexican friends were heading homeward, the nice policemen did not make an issue of the encounter, and the merry trio staggered off.
Time had marched on with a steadiness that our Mexican friend did not possess, so we decided to rinse, dry and refresh. Angel found a beach shower and I insisted that he go first. “Eeoww, it’s so cold!” he screamed as he sprayed water from a shower that seemed to be designed for use during a drought. Just before it was my turn, a couple of old Russian gentlemen arrived and helped me by making sure there would be a constant spray of cold water. It’s wasn’t horribly cold and it soon felt refreshing. I looked down into the sandy pool of water in which I stood. The water was white. The lotion that I had spread over my body was being diluted and had formed a white pool. No matter how much water was sprayed on me, I was still covered in white stuff, to the great amusement of my Russian helpers. After a while, I gave up and dried off because getting to a bar/restaurant was now the top priority.
As a result of careful research the previous week, we knew what was available nearby, so we decided to give Tatiana a try, if the waiting staff could give the correct answer to out first question. “Is the bar open and when does it close?” we demanded of the maitre d’. “It’s open and will stay open for as long as necessary,” she replied. We recounted our experience of the previous week at Winter Garden. The maitre d’ couldn’t believe it. Neither could we at the time.
Our waitress approached and said, “There’s a fifteen dollar per person minimum.”
“Don’t worry; we’ll be here for a while. We’ve got a lot of eating and drinking to do,” Angel assured her.
We ordered food and drinks and settled in for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the opportunity to people watch.
“Look. More high heels,” said Angel pointing out a couple as they passed by.
“Oh, dear!” I said. “I don’t care for his girlfriend’s shoes either.”
The food was unquestionably excellent to the point that it made us thirsty, so we forced ourselves to have several more drinks. We then had no hesitation in making food recommendations to the couple at the next table who seem convinced that I was South African. White South African. Extremely white, but about to turn pink.
There were many other things that went on that I could set out here, but why bother. That’s what I’d be thinking if I were you. It’s been no picnic writing this and I can only imagine the hardship of reading it. So I’ll finish up and say that the next exciting adventure involving Mark and Angel will be about Little Italy because we’re just about to meet up and go there for some sort of thing that’s happening. That’s all I know for now. Catch you soon, dolls.
UPDATE
We didn't make it to Little Italy but will probably catch some of that culture during the week. Watch this space.
16 September 2005
It was no day at the beach - part ii
Avid and regular readers may not have been too enthralled by my last act of bloggery, It was no day at the beach, so I thought I would try better this time. If you didn’t read that one, please note that what follows is the conclusion to the my previous post.
The train ride to Manhattan was unlike no other. First, there was a devastatingly handsome young Russian sitting opposite us. He seemed engrossed by his notebook and pencil. I think he was collecting phone numbers, or perhaps inside leg measurements because at the first stop when two attractive young men boarded the train, the young Russian began to cruise them with a focus that I have never before witnessed. He was like a human velociraptor with tasty prey in his sight. He made his interest in our fellow passengers abundantly clear, and when it was time for him to alight, he reluctantly got off alone.
At the next stop, three young black men boarded the train. We listened to their conversation and observed them. They looked as if they might be in their late teens. One boy was extremely fat and very vocal. His friend was a stick insect who made me look fat and didn’t have too much to say that wasn’t delivered in a tone of blind panic. The third young man was silent and instantly forgettable.
Angel whispered in my ear, “I can’t understand anything they’re saying except ‘nigga’ and ‘motherfucker’.”
“Don’t worry,” I said reassuringly. “Remember, I live in Harlem. I can translate.”
I made tried to look bored and uninterested in what was being said, but it was quite fascinating. As I explained to Angel later, when it was safe to do so, the large one was giving serious thought to perpetrating a crime that would pay off enough that eighteen months behind bars would be worth it. The stick insect knew what life was like in the big house.
[The following sentence is an edited translation for the benefit of avid and regular readers.]
“There are long tables and chairs where you eat, and big TV screens at each end, and cells all around.”
Big Boy liked the idea of TV and was convinced that he could handle doing time without any problem.
“Don’t do it, man”, Stick pleaded with his bro’. [bro’ = brother, friend, companion]
I thought that the big house would be like no fat farm Big Boy had ever been to, and he’d probably get released looking even thinner than me (though perhaps not so thin as Stick). And as for those giant TV screens, I didn’t think that with his his cellmates to consider he would have too much time for telly.
Angel was agog as I filled him in on the details. I was able to edit the story down to about half the length of the original by eliminating ‘nigga’ and ‘motherfucker’ from my version.
Anyhoo, that concludes the week before. If you haven’t fallen asleep yet (and who could blame you?) I’ll begin the next adventure. If you have fallen asleep, wake up, and get off my lawn blog er… I mean yawn blog.
The train ride to Manhattan was unlike no other. First, there was a devastatingly handsome young Russian sitting opposite us. He seemed engrossed by his notebook and pencil. I think he was collecting phone numbers, or perhaps inside leg measurements because at the first stop when two attractive young men boarded the train, the young Russian began to cruise them with a focus that I have never before witnessed. He was like a human velociraptor with tasty prey in his sight. He made his interest in our fellow passengers abundantly clear, and when it was time for him to alight, he reluctantly got off alone.
At the next stop, three young black men boarded the train. We listened to their conversation and observed them. They looked as if they might be in their late teens. One boy was extremely fat and very vocal. His friend was a stick insect who made me look fat and didn’t have too much to say that wasn’t delivered in a tone of blind panic. The third young man was silent and instantly forgettable.
Angel whispered in my ear, “I can’t understand anything they’re saying except ‘nigga’ and ‘motherfucker’.”
“Don’t worry,” I said reassuringly. “Remember, I live in Harlem. I can translate.”
I made tried to look bored and uninterested in what was being said, but it was quite fascinating. As I explained to Angel later, when it was safe to do so, the large one was giving serious thought to perpetrating a crime that would pay off enough that eighteen months behind bars would be worth it. The stick insect knew what life was like in the big house.
[The following sentence is an edited translation for the benefit of avid and regular readers.]
“There are long tables and chairs where you eat, and big TV screens at each end, and cells all around.”
Big Boy liked the idea of TV and was convinced that he could handle doing time without any problem.
“Don’t do it, man”, Stick pleaded with his bro’. [bro’ = brother, friend, companion]
I thought that the big house would be like no fat farm Big Boy had ever been to, and he’d probably get released looking even thinner than me (though perhaps not so thin as Stick). And as for those giant TV screens, I didn’t think that with his his cellmates to consider he would have too much time for telly.
Angel was agog as I filled him in on the details. I was able to edit the story down to about half the length of the original by eliminating ‘nigga’ and ‘motherfucker’ from my version.
Anyhoo, that concludes the week before. If you haven’t fallen asleep yet (and who could blame you?) I’ll begin the next adventure. If you have fallen asleep, wake up, and get off my lawn blog er… I mean yawn blog.
14 September 2005
It was no day at the beach - part i
My friend Angel talked me into making a trip to Coney Island recently. It's a piece of Americana that I'd not seen, so I decided to give it a whirl. After a quick walk around the amusements, we headed down the promenade (boardwalk) for a spot of people watching. Well!!! It's been years since I've spent so much time among such huge numbers of straight people. We knew when we could see in the distance a green sign for a restaurant named V**ina that we were not among the Posh Table A crowd. (Two of the letters of the restaurant's name were obscured by other signage.) To our great relief, the restaurant was named something different from the obvious, and it was a grill rather than a fish restaurant.
Despite the fact that we hadn't had a drink all day, and it was pushing 1.00 pm, we continued our forced march down Brighton Beach. Noticing the maple leaf symbols of the city parks department I commented to Angel that the maple leaves made me think of Canada. I was actually thinking that we had walked so far that it felt as if we could have been in Ottawa by then.
"Are we there yet?" I demanded.
"Where?" Angel responded.
"Canada!"
We kept going and passed several bar/restaurants that we firmly intendedhaving a look at eating and drinking in later in our expedition. Eventually, we got to the end of the boardwalk (somewhere in the Hamptons would be my guess), took our shoes off, and started the long walk back on the beach. Not recommended, though there were some nice views along the way. Also some not so nice ones: the product of 300 years of potato diet!
Just when we thought we might never eat or drink again, we came upon the section of Russian restaurants on Brighton beach and settled on the Winter Garden because we preferred its bold but co-ordinated colour scheme over the clashing tones of Tatiana and the unmentionable one.
We selected a lovely table and settled in for a libation and a nibble. We ordered vodka shots to begin - three of them, one for me, and two for Angel. I also ordered a vodka tonic, and Angel asked for a coke. We also asked for water. Two shots arrived quickly afterwards so we had one each. We sat waiting. When we eventually able to attract the attention of our waitress we asked about our other drinks.
"Bar's closed," she said, completely deadpan.
In what I imagine was a 'Sooty moment' (British readers may recall Sooty the hand puppet), in an instant, my head shot up and swivelled 90 degrees. I had one word for her: "Closed?!?!?!" which I delivered with the full force that those exclamation marks imply. It was 4.00 pm for goodness sake, and there was a huge amount of drinking to be done.
Not wanting to make international spectacles of ourselves, we ordered cokes (again). One coke arrived. We shared it and asked for water (again). A large jug of water arrived, but no glasses. Avid and careful readers will have noticed that we had received shot glasses earlier, which by this point were empty. Necessity being the mother of invention, we poured shots of water. Perfect. Eventually, we splurged on a second bottle of coke and polished off the water before leaving. As an aside, I will say that the food was excellent. The laughs we had about the service were even better. It's amazing how much fun you can have on one tiny shot.
The journey back to Manhattan was a revelation. I'll save that story and the account of our next journey to Coney Island and Brighton Beach for another time.
Despite the fact that we hadn't had a drink all day, and it was pushing 1.00 pm, we continued our forced march down Brighton Beach. Noticing the maple leaf symbols of the city parks department I commented to Angel that the maple leaves made me think of Canada. I was actually thinking that we had walked so far that it felt as if we could have been in Ottawa by then.
"Are we there yet?" I demanded.
"Where?" Angel responded.
"Canada!"
We kept going and passed several bar/restaurants that we firmly intended
Just when we thought we might never eat or drink again, we came upon the section of Russian restaurants on Brighton beach and settled on the Winter Garden because we preferred its bold but co-ordinated colour scheme over the clashing tones of Tatiana and the unmentionable one.
We selected a lovely table and settled in for a libation and a nibble. We ordered vodka shots to begin - three of them, one for me, and two for Angel. I also ordered a vodka tonic, and Angel asked for a coke. We also asked for water. Two shots arrived quickly afterwards so we had one each. We sat waiting. When we eventually able to attract the attention of our waitress we asked about our other drinks.
"Bar's closed," she said, completely deadpan.
In what I imagine was a 'Sooty moment' (British readers may recall Sooty the hand puppet), in an instant, my head shot up and swivelled 90 degrees. I had one word for her: "Closed?!?!?!" which I delivered with the full force that those exclamation marks imply. It was 4.00 pm for goodness sake, and there was a huge amount of drinking to be done.
Not wanting to make international spectacles of ourselves, we ordered cokes (again). One coke arrived. We shared it and asked for water (again). A large jug of water arrived, but no glasses. Avid and careful readers will have noticed that we had received shot glasses earlier, which by this point were empty. Necessity being the mother of invention, we poured shots of water. Perfect. Eventually, we splurged on a second bottle of coke and polished off the water before leaving. As an aside, I will say that the food was excellent. The laughs we had about the service were even better. It's amazing how much fun you can have on one tiny shot.
The journey back to Manhattan was a revelation. I'll save that story and the account of our next journey to Coney Island and Brighton Beach for another time.
Phone mystery continued
Avid and regular readers will recall my act of bloggery about a phone mystery (written exactly a month ago today). If you haven't already read it, and I can't think why you'd want to miss that one, you'd better click the link immediately, and certainly before reading any further.
At 1.47 pm today, the mystery man, Jason, called again and I spoke to him! Unfortunately, I was distracted by something important, or perhaps even a work-related matter, and did not have several hours spare to subject him to forensic questionning. However, I did glean from him that I am the voice on HIS outgoing voicemail, and he thought we met at View Bar (I would remember that because I always get nosebleeds if I travel below 42nd Street, so I rarely go that far down-state). He then remembered that we actually met at Posh! Apparently, I had provided my vocal services at Posh Table A one night. There have been several evenings that outgoing messages have been recorded by members of The Table for their friends. I thought I was the only person who had retained his, as recorded by Master Moore and Master Nichols; Jason still has his.
If you're still reading at this point, and who can blame you, you'll be wanting to know why Jason called. He needed directions to Posh! Can you believe it? He seems to think I'll be meeting him there at some point. Heavens! I can't say he never calls.
At 1.47 pm today, the mystery man, Jason, called again and I spoke to him! Unfortunately, I was distracted by something important, or perhaps even a work-related matter, and did not have several hours spare to subject him to forensic questionning. However, I did glean from him that I am the voice on HIS outgoing voicemail, and he thought we met at View Bar (I would remember that because I always get nosebleeds if I travel below 42nd Street, so I rarely go that far down-state). He then remembered that we actually met at Posh! Apparently, I had provided my vocal services at Posh Table A one night. There have been several evenings that outgoing messages have been recorded by members of The Table for their friends. I thought I was the only person who had retained his, as recorded by Master Moore and Master Nichols; Jason still has his.
If you're still reading at this point, and who can blame you, you'll be wanting to know why Jason called. He needed directions to Posh! Can you believe it? He seems to think I'll be meeting him there at some point. Heavens! I can't say he never calls.
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