New York’s never fun.
Not cuz’ New York’s not fun, it’s just because I always seem to be here on business, workin’ the rails, freelance, now consulting. Not like when I used to bum around with Todd. The Village never seemed magic, just cool. The right kind of cool. Art cool.
When I looked out of the cab and saw Bleeker and Christopher I had the most powerful memory, of some really ass pizza I sucked down on a hot august afternoon.how’s that song go.back of my neck getting dirt and gritty. What struck me at that moment, was that New York wasn’t magic, wasn’t some romantic land of action, wasn’t it’s myth. But the myth has a reason, like the Greeks trying to figure out thunder and coming up with Thor instead of taking the time to figure it out. New York’s just a whole mess of people, tryin’ really hard to make coin, fat coin. And any time you got that many people driven by their own egos, avarice and fear it’s gonna’ create a certain flailing magic. Like a social analog to sex, lot’s of heavy breathing, lingering touch, caresses broken by moments of extraordinary ecstasy. It’s not the successes that hold the seductive and dark beauty, it’s the capacity to sustain the failure.
So hungry. Enjoyed the train in though, forgot how good a way to travel the train is. Easy to flirt. The Empire State looked like some kind of pagan temple bathed in pink sunset before we hit the tunnel. Penn Station is still the snake pit it always was, looks nicer though. Love it. Hit the 8th street exit, the cabstand was still there, strange how I remembered that. City kitties are looking good, though I’d still pick DC for that particular charm. Cab queues are ass outside Penn. I’m looking through the dirt fogged cab window at all the food on Bleeker. Damn near abandon my possessions when I spot the Peruvian place. Wish I didn’t have to be up at 5:30 tomorrow, I’d take the long way and eat my way to Wall Street. The desk staff at the Club Quarters seems amazingly pleasant, of course, they seem to be the only humans here on this Sunday night. Place is closed tighter than a Hoosiers mind. Not a single restaurant open in the four-block perimeter I walked off. Getting’ chilly. Head to the hotel eatery “The Bull Run, Wall Streets hottest grill and café” as indicated by the Lucite encased info sheet in my room. “Hottest” may be a little strong, given the seven patrons haunting this terra cotta cavern. Two couples, interracial and geezer, a random consultant and some sixty year old gay guy looking at me like I’m the next menu item. I’d probably take it as a compliment if he were dressed better.
Back in the room. Feeling a little low. Ain’t nothing like being alone among so many people. This room seems designed to remind you that you’re working. Not bad, but I can’t escape the sense of “being housed”. What’s that racket? Sounds like a party in the room next door.but it’s too clean, the sonics too crisp. Look out the 15th floor window, it’s dark, but there it is. A kid with a drum kit on the roof four floors down. My first reaction is annoyance, my “peace” disturbed. A huge rush overwhelms me, a rush of revulsion at such an old man reaction, I could’a been that kid, hell I still could be. I open the window and lean out. Fire up a cig, and listen. Kid’s kickin’ pretty good. His girl friend twirls in dim glow of the office lights. She sees me and waves. The wave I return is more than good home training, it holds my thanks for an important reminder, and a wish for them both.
Hope they hold this feeling. You gotta’ have passion, need to love with passion or else your just conceding the point to those who don’t.
And they don’t deserve to win. I was wrong.
New York is fun.