April 4th, 2002. Thursday
 

    A sampling of events of the last few days.

    On tuesday, I had an interview at a golf magazine. In my cover letter, just to show I knew something about golf, I wrote, "... and I know that Phil Mickleson will never win a major."  A "major" being one of the four "Grand Slam" tournaments.  So I'm sitting with the Editor in Chief, and he's reading over my cover letter, and he asks me why I thought this. And I said "I don't know, it just seems like if were going to win one, he'd have done it already," or something lame like that.  He didn't laugh. He was not amused. So after meeting with another editor, she hands me a few copies of the magazine to look through.  And what's the fucking cover on the first one I see? A big fucking picture of Phil Fucking Mickelson, with a big headline that reads "FINALLY, HE'S READY!"  The subtitle read "MAN, IS HE READY!" My hopes for the job aren't so optimistic.  I wasn't all that enthusiastic about the prospect of working there anyway, and I think my subconscious did a few turns to sabotage me.  First, after getting up early to print out my resume and assemble my clips, I left them at home. So of course when they asked for them, all I had was an empty bag. Then, after leaving with a lot of time to get to the interview, I got on the train going the wrong way. So i ended up being late.  Anyway, we're moving on.  

    That night, I went to a small party/reading event held by this little newspaper I'm hoping to get some stuff published in.  My first time going someplace exclusively to shmooze.  I don't know what i really think of the paper, but it pays, and that's good. I think the editor fellow I was talking to was a bit put off by all my questions about how he could afford to run the operation, since there are very few ads.  I was afraid maybe he thought I was just in it for the money, and not in it for the art or something.  I just want him to use my stuff.  I sent him some of those little children's stories I wrote oh so long ago.  And i'd like to send him actual writing.  At the very least, it's giving me more motivation to write.  Right now, I'm mostly lifting or developing ideas from past journal entries,  which is sort of helpful, as far as giving me ideas.  Though I feel like i'm ripping myself off.

   On the way to the subway, I got a quick call from Nora. Then, 8 hours later, at 8:16 am, I got another call from Nora. It was 5:16 am in California. I wasn't quite in a talking mood, so I told her we'd speak later.  I don't know quite what she wanted, and I thought maybe she was having some sort of crisis. 

    Yesterday, it was nice and sunny and 65 degrees when I left the house.  When I left he office, it was about 40 and raining. This is not the first time that spring has pulled a fast one on us.  Luckily, I check the weather before leaving the house, so I was prepared for the coldness.  Though I thought they were kidding about the rain.  Anyway, I met Caryn and Jeollado for sushi.  She showed up in short sleeves and a vest, and clearly did not prepare for the weather.  One of my dad's favorite nuggets of advice is that, at each equinox, he loves to remind us that, just because it's warm or even hot during the day, doesn't mean it'll be hot once the sun goes down.  You can mark the seasons with the budding of the trees, the sprouting of the tulips, the turning of the leaves, and my dad's sundown advice.  Anyway, Caryn is still observing Passover, so she couldn't eat rice and had to get sashimi.  I told her she wasn't allowed to eat the octopus, being the bottom-feeder and all and hence not kosher, but she ate it anyway.  What a cheater.  Just before ordering, she said she couldn't eat edamame because she couldn't eat beans. And I said "what about soy sauce? it's made from the exact soy beans you say you can't eat." And she said really shouldn't but it was even worse to eat something Passover non compliant in its pure form.  Soy sauce, she says, you can pretend.  Well, what about the damn octopus. You can't pretend that's something else. Then again, she always eats squid, which is also not kosher.  Anyway, I don't really care about her rules. I just wanted to eat the octopus.

    While at dinner, I asked Caryn if I were unmarried at age 40 or so and felt like having a kid if she would carry my child.  She said maybe. So that's promising.  I told her she wouldn't have to be around after the birth, and wouldn't need to be involved in the baby's life at all.  Which she thought was funny. But I told her I'd feel guilty if she died or something while going through labor. Plus, she has such a low threshold for pain, I doubt she could take it without massive doses of painkillers. Sometimes it's really a shame she's a girl.  Though it is nice to know that, should I somehow remain unmarried and without child by age 40, I have a safety uterus ready to go.

    Anyway, after dinner we walked east to meet Phoebe.  Caryn was freezing in her short sleave vest, so I offered her my jacket a few times. She refused, saying she didn't want it because I'd never ever let her forget about it, that i provided her with warmth and did her a big, chivalrous favor.  Some people.  We'd walked an avenue before I convinced to to just take the goddam jacket, and promised I'd only bring it up five or six times in the future.  This one doesn't count. Anyway, i wore her stylish indie rock vest over my long sleeve shirt. I felt very Rivers Cuomo-esque.  After getting some coffee on Ave. A, we saw Phoebe at 2A. I said I quick hello, got my jacket back, and headed down toward Soho.

    The destination in Soho was the wine shop where Rodzilla is now the assistant manager.  She's sure they're going to fire her when she tells them she's going to grad school.  The big debate in her life right now, at least the biggest internal debate she's having that i'm aware of, is which grad school to go to.  She got into Columbia a few weeks ago, and just found out she got into Harvard.  She doesn't seem to like that everyone is so impressed with Harvard, mostly because it's the name that's impressive.  I would agree.  So she's still on the fence.  Anyway, she'd invited me down to drink some wine while she closed up the place.  This particular wine store only sells New York wines, which I'm told makes it unique in the City.  And they have a small tasting bar in the back.  So I had a few red wines and a really good dessert wine.  One of the things I found amusing in the wine shop(pe) was how one of the shelves was adorned with Lord of the Rings action figures.  Rodzilla said a lot of the movie was shot in the Hudson River Valley, and that's a main supplier of the wine in the store. I thought the movie was shot all in New Zealand. Hmm. Anyway, it looked sort of funny to see the wine bottles, the fancy corkscrews and wine racks and books, and then a big Orc figure.

    So after closing up shop, we went across the street to the Broome St. Bar so Rodzilla could get a bite to eat.  She got the chili. I've always appreciated Rodzilla's eating habits.  She loves high quality, expensive food, but is just as happy to eat a big, disgusting bowl of chili. It kind of even grossed me out, as she was mixing up the sour cream with the chili, as bits of beans and ground meat started overflowing and came spewing out of the mug that the chili was served in. Then we moved to the bar.  In the past few months, Rodzilla has developed the habit of talking to total strangers at bars.  And in restaurants. And random stores. And on the street, in the subway, in taxis, buses, museums, all-you-can-eat buffets, baseball games, zoos, post offices, and fruit stands.  Or in a hat, with a cat, in her home, under a dome, and here, and there, and everywhere. Sometimes it's kind of funny, but one of these days I'm afraid it's going to get my ass kicked.  She'll just be singing or something, and get louder as people get closer. Or she'll hear a snippet of a conversation between people walking past us, and just jump in with her two cents.  Sometimes the people get offended or scared or whatever. Usually old people who think (or realize) that she's fookin' crazy.  And of course, if some asshole doesn't like what she's saying, I'm the one who's going to have the guy all up in my business. I don't like that. Anyway, she, and then we, ended up talking to this 39-year old investment manager from San Francisco.  He's moving to New York. He spent 35 nights here on business last year. He knows because he always stays at the Waldorf and has his points added up.  He's been in the business for 18 years. He wants to retire in 5 years. He and his wife, Shannon, whom he met at the Kentucky Derby, just bought a place in Westport.  He didn't want to raise his son, Connor Wyatt, in the city. Connor turns one year old on Sunday.  He doesn't really like his job and is always stressed, but has a long term goal.  So he's ok with it.  He is knowledgeable about California wines, hates Chardonnays, and likes Chianti. He smokes, but never around his child.  He has a presentation in Boston today with two guys he thinks are idiots and who he will have to carry through the meeting.  Then he goes back to San Francisco. He misses his wife.  Yes, it's safe to say that we talked with this gentleman named Mark for quite some time.  I had predicted to Caryn before I met Rodzilla that before we left the bar, she would ask if we could take a cab to the subway, even though it was only 4 or 5 blocks. Rodzilla did not dissapoint.  As we left the Beatles were playing.  So for four or five blocks, I got an earful of Rodzilla warbling "Baby you can drive my car..."  I tried to break it up by breaking into Roxette's "The Look," which I've had in my head for the past two weeks, but that was even worse.  And of course, as people came closer, she got louder and louder.  Still, a pretty pleasant night. Though I didn't get to spend the evening watching hours and hours of television, as I had planned.

Mail to G-Rock
DA&R home
Past Aggravations and Regrets
previous|next