august 16 2000
it still amazes me how these transcendental moments function. that in the midst of the subway rides and the glowering sidesteps, the things that are happening all around you will pause without warning and lift away--and what you're left looking at is something that's probably been riding around on your shoulder for weeks, but only becomes clear as a function of confluence. if the last seventeen things around you hadn't happened, it wouldn't be staring at you, chin to chin. that probably could have waited, but i'm not one to delay gratification, unless the situation really calls for it. so right now, epilogue becomes prologue. deal widdit.
so tonight after work the entire magazine retired down to a newish bar in chelsea, one opened by sebastian junger, he of the stubbled rugged jawline, the people cover and the expendable income that's apparently burning a hole in his pocket. it happens to be called the half king, which happens to figure more prominently than just giving me a chance to remember how in one of beverly cleary's ramona books ramona tried to get her father to stop smoking and in the process left small rolled-up pieces of paper in his cigarette packs in lieu of the expected coffin nails and how when unrolled the slips of paper read
NOSMO
KING
and how when mr. quimby asked his daughter who nosmo king was she replied "no smoking!" and didn't understand why he laughed at her. no, it figures more prominently than that, though if you're intrigued by exactly why i remember that episode i can tell you that i had a long-standing fictional crush on ramona's sister beezus. actually, i didn't. i wouldn't even have been able to remember her name were it not for the seeming omniscience of google. speaking of which, recent google searches that have brought people to this site include:
ethan hawke + uma + in love
brazilian wax
brazilian bikini wax
cockroach vermin and
paul barman pictures
all related, if you ask me.
yeah, so i knew the name of the bar, and i decided to walk down from times square to 23rd and 10th avenue, where it was. when i got to 23rd and 9th avenue. i was thirsty and distracted to begin with, and the bar called "h2k" looked so dark and nice and had such a similar name (i hardly think i was in the wrong, given how "h/2" can be interpreted as some neofactotumesque play on the graphical-textual nature of "half." then again, maybe i just give people too much credit.) that i forgot that it wasn't the bar i was supposed to be in, so i walked in and had a pint and listened to the bartender's friend complain about how every time she walked into a bar, every man inside sized her up and wouldn't leave her alone. tell me about it, sister. curse this flawlessly groomed facial hair and this irresistibly lazy eye. curse them! 10 minutes later, i was done with the pint and realizing that i was actually .2 miles east of where i needed to be, so i walked the extra block to the half king. where people were drinking for free and eating free pizza being delivered from someplace that had mastered the fine art of getting the top of the cheese to darken and rise like so many deceptively rigid and opaque flavor bubbles.
and i drank for free, and ate the pizza and its deceptively rigid and opaque flavor bubbles. and realized at some point that i should leave. so i grabbed my bag and headed to the door, only to become involved in a long and highly inappropriate inebriated conversation with a co-worker slash de facto mentor who is basically single-handedly influencing my magazine writing career. this conversation, meandering as it was, touched decidedly and unsolicitedly upon the fact that the co-worker slash de facto mentor was quote-unquote pimping me to all the editors at the magazine and that quote once i was in i was in for life end quote. basically, his way of telling me that things were about to get very very good. this dovetails with something that i've been sitting on for close to a week, mostly because it's been slowly coalescing from a possible development to a prospect to a real-seeming overture to an offer, and which will be discussed in greater detail very very soon, i.e., next week. at some point, i left the bar with a serious buzz, and sat in a cab during a ride that i had been assured would be fully reimbursed and realized that not only was i no longer in a holding pattern, but i was actually doing really fucking well. and the glowering sidesteps and crowded trains fell away and the idea of professional fulfillment got into the cab and sat next to me in tranquil silence all the way home.
to recap:flawlessly groomed facial hair and an irresistibly lazy eye. quote-unquote pimping. thank you.
p.
and yo. my full-on venture kneejerk.net is up and running, though not nearly full. go and getcha read on. for me.
props to darkcounter.com
and sitemeter