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01 august 2000
----- August in New York. Hot and sticky, threatening rain but not delivering. I'm stuck in the daily grind, joining countless commuters packed like canned fish in overheated trains, speeding beneath the Hudson river and Manhattan proper. I'm still not quite on New York time, as my subconscious is struggling to maintain its LA rhythm. I haven't slept more than five hours a night since I've arrived, and I've been subsisting on very strong coffee from a little snack cart on Wall Street, presented daily in a royal blue and white cup proudly proclaiming, in Greek-like letters "We Are Happy To Serve You." As for my days, so far I've been working my ass off in spurts, looking out my 12th floor window for inspiration in the facade of the New York Stock Exchange. More enlightening are my cigarette breaks, down on the sidewalk, taking in the Street's sweet scenery. And I love standing there, puffing, passively perusing, my lonely mind's imagination picking and plucking potential partners from passers-by. The women seem more attractive here, but I think that's just a symptom of circumstance rather than reality. I see more women when I stand for five minutes on Wall Street than I do living five days in LA. I do think that the women in NY dress better than their LA counterparts. I don't know if it has to do with the more anal lifestyle, or the fact that they have a greater variety of clothes due to the four seasons, or the fact that they can't hide inside their cars. Either way, it doesn't quite explain the men, who dress much worse than the guys in LA. Which is fine by me, because I feel right at home here, myself being one of the more schlockily-dressed doods in southern california. After work I hopped a subway up to Times Square, and met Brutus and some friends at the Whisky Bar, a rather pretentious little hole carved into the facade of the Paramount Hotel. The waitresses are clad in one-piece translucent black imagination-defeating catsuits, and serve rather expensive drinks with fake smiles and no wit to speak of. It's a fun place to hang, very un-New-York, but fun nonetheless. Dinner was at Peter Luger, my favorite steak house in the world, serving fine Porterhouses for over 100 years. Tonight was no exception to my many previous visits, and I arrived back in NJ with a full stomach and the promise of a decent night's sleep for a change.
In the forum: 01 august 1999: : didn't write 01 august 1998: just peachy : You would think after almost thirty years of living with myself, I'd know me pretty well. Yet I'm more a stranger to me now than I ever was. [ swim back | email me | swim ahead ] |
