Friday, April 24, 2009

Early to be in on a Friday, especially such a beautiful one, but here I am in my night gown. I was out like a normal 20-something, but got felled by a persistent migraine and am only now in the delicate detente stages, which may be fleeting.

The weather's been wonderful. Last night, Slim and I went to see Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which was being screened downtown in concert for some reason with the Tribeca Film Festival. (The turtles lit the Empire State Building yesterday, too (green.)) Before the film started there was face painting for kids, free pizza and a Tae Kwan Do presentation, which was strange only because then the film's director and producers got up and made speeches and the kids, for whom all the other events were staged, were bored silly. The movie was, of course, terrific, and it seems like the guy who played Danny, the disaffected teen,, may have been in the crowd, judging by the delighted whoops that came from one section whenever he appeared onscreen being sullen. Afterwards Slim and I stopped into a Financial District pub called Seamus McShea's or something, which was playing host to a very intense Irish cover band and an equally intense group of middle-aged fans, all of whom seemed to have come in from Jersey. At one point I timed a 5-minute drum solo. This one guy came up to us, very excited, to explain that the guitarist had, maybe, at some point played with a late incarnation of Vanilla Fudge.
"You know the part in Die Hard I where Bruce Willis throws the guy out the window?" he asked Slim. "Well, welcome to the party, Pal. This is it!"

Prior to the headache, I went for a walk in Williamsburg; some street style blogger took my picture (I had on a good sort of "artistic grandma" look), a guy whom I didn't recognize addressed me by name (I think he and Slim went to college together; I hope so, since I gave him S's number), I found Slim a shirt, and got an iced tea at the bakery with the terribly surly staff. Later, saw Sugar with Charlie and Sam; then the headache got too bad - can you tell it still is? - and I hightailed it to sweat it out. The walk back was nice, the neighborhood much quiter than I'd expected. I glanced into the bohemians' apartment - last night they seemed to be projecting a film onto the wall - but they were out and I could just make out the drums and the ethnic hangings they have up. I want to get to know them, but I also recognize that if I ever did, they'd just bang up against all my hard edges and I'd hold myself aloof from their soft ones, and while Slim might be able to bond with them over music or weed or the language of artistically-inclined nonjudgmental good people, I never could.

Overheard a peculiar exchange between a mother who was one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen in real life and her equally stunning, maybe 12-year-old daughter.

"The last time I went to the Hamptons, I dropped a watermelon in a pool," said the girl.

"Well, what's your tradition: dropping watermelons in pools, or having a good time?" demanded her mother.

"I have a good time in New York," said the child sullenly.

Anyway. Someone apparently killed just a few blocks over earlier this week. Not too worrisome as apparently they knew each other and one guy shot the other in the face in a building's entryway. As I told Slim when he cautioned me about it, "if someone shoots me in the face, I'll know he means business." Not funny, but there you go. I have a headache. Sometimes when I was little I used to fantasize about chopping off my afflicted head with a guillotine or a samurai sword; now I'll settle for bed, thanks.

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