Late, late, late last night, after a wedding so good it nearly broke me of my secret plans to elope should I ever tie the knot myself, I ended up alone in a hotel room with the three bridesmaids, all of whom were fairly drunk. None the less, I am terribly disappointed to admit that Helen Jane still doesn
Realizing I was much too inebriated to make the half hour drive back to my friend’s house after the party I attended last night (theme: “naughty & nice”), I ended up instead spending the night on the back seat of my rented Focus. When Ford says ‘compact’, they’re not kidding.
From what I can recall:
7:30: Dinner with Sarina, Yoav and Randy. Sarina cooked, I pitched in as potato-masher and wine bottle-opener. Excellent.
9:30: Over to Bemelmans at the Carlyle to meet Shibani (in from Cleveland), her boyfriend Darren, and his mom (in from Australia). Jazz courtesy of Loston Harris, former piano player of the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra.
11:00: Meet back up with Yoav and Sarina at Amelia’s birthday party at Noche in Times Square. Bachelorette party is simultaneously taking place at bar and bachelorette has t-shirt emblazoned with checklist of things she needs to get random guys at the bar to do; Yoav has apparently already given her his boxers (replete with Seven Dwarfs pattern). I escape having only to buy her a round of vodka shots and kiss her on camera.
1:00: Side trip with Sarina, Amelia and Chandre for drunken hamburger eating at McDonalds down the block.
1:15: Back to Noche to assist Yoav in rescuing two early-twenties girls unhappily surrounded by balding men in their early fourties.
1:30: Escort girls to Single Room Occupancy a few blocks away; gain instant street cred by knowing location of the bar, as one of the two had heard that SRO existed, but had never been able to find out exactly where.
2:00: Apparently, second (cuter) girl is in for the weekend from Syracuse, where she’s working on her masters. Yoav and I exchange glances on this fact, as girl seems to have brains of toothpaste.
2:30: Ah, masters is in fitness education. Right.
3:00: Wait, how much have I had to drink by now?
4:00: In moment of clarity, realize would regret immensely actually going home with either girl. Say my goodbyes, stagger back to apartment and, after some difficulty negotiating the stairs, collapse on bed still partially dressed.
11:00: Solemnly vow to never, ever drink again so long as I live. Or at least not until later this evening.
Apparently, the combination of vodka, allergy medication, and very low blood pressure isn’t a terribly good one, as I passed out this morning on my way to the bathroom. After which, I proceeded to get up, walk back to my bedroom and pass out a second time there.
Though I’m nursing a number of odd bruises from the two less than graceful crumplings, there was something oddly pleasant about the suddenly cool, clammy and clear feeling that comes with post-feinting fluttering open of eyelids. Something akin to, though certainly milder than, the feelings Dostoevsky described as preceding his epileptic fits:
“For several instants I experience a happiness that is impossible in an ordinary state, and of which other people have no conception. I feel full harmony in myself and in the whole world, and the feeling is so strong and sweet that for a few seconds of such bliss one could give up ten years of life, perhaps all of life. All of you healthy people don’t even suspect what happiness is, that happiness that we epileptics experience for a second before an attack.”
Just rescued some lady at the end of my block from a big drunk who was harassing her. Not too happy to be “escorted” away, he left me with a few good welts as souvenirs of the encounter. Still, I’m tempted to stop this movie producing / tech non-profit crap and just become Batman full time.
One of the few downsides to leaving the East Side was an increase in distance between myself and the Campbell Apartment, one of New York’s finest bars for early-evening drinks dates, martini meetings, and general impressing of others.
Thanks to the investigative efforts of my esteemed Cyan colleague Colin, however, I have, fortunately, discovered an able replacement quite close to home: Single-Room Occupancy, located just two blocks up (on 53rd, slightly East of 9th). Entrance is through a brownstone basement door, largely unmarked save a single green sconce. Ring the buzzer for admittance into the small space, sparsely decorated and lit solely by recessed glowing tiles in the roof and floor. No liquor, just an excellent assortment of imported beers and fine wines, served in tasteful fluted glassware. Sort of neo-minimalist speak-easy chic.
If, because the documents, clothing, and other items you’ve accumulated during two months in Los Angeles don’t all fit into your suitcase, you cleverly decide to UPS some things back home, be sure to check the pockets of any pants you ship, so that you don’t realize the following morning that you’ve actually sent your wallet out by mistake as well.
Growing up in drought-ridden California, I was, for most of my childhood, robbed of the carwashing experience. Which is why I was so excited to discover that, all around downtown Los Angeles, there are do-it-yourself carwashing stations.
Perhaps these are mainstays elsewhere in the country, but I’d never before seen one myself. In short, toss eight quarters into the wall, and a giant red digital clock comes alive – four minutes, ticking down quickly. From the ceiling, attached to long blue hoses, hang a variety of attachments: power washer, foam-emitting mop, wax sprayer. And, while the seconds tick, one frantically rinses the car, soaps the car, rinses the car, waxes the car, then rinses it once more for good measure. Then it’s on to the drying station, where (with a blue uber-paper-towel, purchased for another seventy five cents) one dries down the entire car, with Miyage-pleasing circular strokes.
This evening, as a result, our black rented SUV sparkles, and I glow with the pleasure of falsely productive manual labor.
While in high school, I played for a brief stint on the golf team. The reason was simple: we students were exempted from gym class while actively competing in a school sport, and, having tasted the freedom of a prep period throughout the long wrestling season, I was damn sure I didn’t want to head back to running the mile, cranking out pull-ups and straining through the “sit and reach”.
So, after reviewing the spring season possibilities, I decided to join the golf team. A reasonably sensible idea, except that I didn’t actually know how to play golf. Undaunted by that reality, I picked up a cheap set of used clubs, took two lessons, and spent about a week practicing on the driving range. The first time I set foot on an actual golf course was the qualifying round for the team.
In retrospect, I must either have had excellent potential, or the pity of the coach, as I ended up making the team, despite making a travesty of the game for 18 holes. And while I did improve steadily (a result of playing three or four days a week with the team), I was always far and away the worst player – not surprising, considering that all of my teammates had been playing for eight to twelve years, rather than my eight to twelve weeks.
Following that brief stint, without the specter of gym class for motivation, my game languished for years. In fact, during the six or seven years following, I played no more than five times, and headed to the driving range only a handful of times more. But since arriving here in LA, with the strong sun beating down summer-like through the smog, I’ve been regularly taking advantage of the weather and my small patches of free time by heading over to the Rancho Park Par 3 course.
And, amazingly, I’m playing significantly better than where I left off. Perhaps as the muscle memory atrophied over years of disuse, my swing whittled down to a simpler, more effective version of itself. Or, perhaps, now that I really don’t care how well I play, I’ve reached a Zen state of great efficacy. Whatever the reason, for the first time, I’m hitting greens from the tee, chipping to the pin, and sinking long putts over odd lies.
Granted, I won’t be heading off on the PGA any time soon. Nor will I be stocking up on argyle socks, pleated khakis and wind-resistant polo pullovers. But I am, for perhaps the first time, good enough to legitimately claim I can play golf. Game on.
A final thought for the morning: without a doubt, there is no hangover more brutal nor more severe than that from an evening of binge-drinking champagne.