It’s like a week ago and here I am, past the frills and thrills of checkpoints and 3 oz. baggies, now onboard and safe and secured and it so happens there’s this blonde, too-muscular woman on the plane who – random coincidence – will be on the same returning flight that I’ll be on in a week; but for the time being she’s in the seat directly behind mine – 19F – stowing her purse and buckling her buckle and clearing her throat, and I can be sure that it’s her because the throat-clearing is rather muscular.
The stewardess bestows upon me a warm pizza in a vacuum-sealed plastic bag and, although I can think of no greater pleasure than pizza packaged in plastic, I do hesitate, then consider, then waver, then gesture like this (::gesture::), and then decide,
“Yes, and a pitcher of thee finest brew, wench.”
I sit there, de-packaging the pizza, savoring this dark Continental lager, thinking about my life. I have a brief conversation with myself about how I might improve said life and then move on to a game of Backgammon on my personalized TV. I’ve never played Backgammon – certainly not touch-screen backgammon, which I hear is infinitely more difficult – but the window seat brings me confidence and I’m up for the challenge. I register as ACE McGEE and battle it out with JOSE M in First Class. JOSE M has clearly played the game before and dominates for eight merciless rounds. He forfeits the ninth match, giving his full attention to his Bourbon Highball and the small, Filipino masseuse who makes the rounds through the First Class cabin, and I take this to mean that I win.
JOSE M and the Filipino and the muscular broad in 19F and the rest of the passengers and I deplane in a mad rush when we arrive at Newark. Three escalators later and we’re at baggage carousel #3, a pool of black sedan drivers in tattered suits hovering under the sign that reads Ground Transportation. I grab a bag I believe to be mine, hop on an unnamed shuttle bus with a leprechaun painted on its exterior, pay the man with the extended hand and tell the driver as we pull out of one world and into another, “Wow, kind of feels like home.”
LAST THURSDAY
Today’s Thursday and that means Moving Day. Jo and I are up and at ‘em with buttered bagels and chocolate coffee concoctions. We head to our old stomping grounds with what feels like a skip in my step but is actually just a large pebble lodged between my middle toe and the tip of my shoe.
That fresh lobby stench of rats and feces has disappeared, replaced by the welcoming odor of improvement. Joanna and our super pal Gill and I climb the stairs we’ve climbed oh like millions of times, reflecting, reminiscing – “Remember when I almost tripped here?” – ascending to the fourth floor of 128 Montague, where we are met by everything we own. Indeed, the entirety of our Brooklyn possessions are stacked yea high in the hall outside our old East Coast pad. We sigh and stomp and piss and moan – “$%&@!” – before tackling the stack as only three bright, goal-oriented individuals with Bachelors of Fine Arts could. The hallway’s like oh I-don’t-know like a thousand degrees but so be it. We tell jokes; we share stories; we fry eggs on our heads and hyperventilate and goshdarnit we make the best of it. Our subletters gave us lemons and we made lemon half-chicken in mash with mixed greens.
After donating a horrid sushi plate I once painted and $900 worth of semi-reusable items to the neighboring Housing Works storefront, I tuck our tax receipt in my jean pocket and pack the car full o’ stuff. I know I’ve done a fine job because – when I get into the driver’s seat and attempt to drive – I can’t see a damn thing.
Gill (our Moving Day motivator) takes home a like-new chalkboard and a modish DVD rack and leftover dish detergent as tokens of thanks. Jo and I pack the remaining items into 22 somewhat-manageable boxes and bags, marked with corresponding numbers and letters and the words Hollywood or Bust.
(Feeling literal and a tad superstitious, Joanna snatched the black permanent marker from my hand, scratched out the words or Bust and preceded the word Hollywood with PLEASE nobody steal this box because it’s urgently needed in…)
LAST FRIDAY
The Express Shipping dock at the Newark Amtrak station is deserted save for two truckers who bicker over the contents of the latest Martha Stewart Living magazine. Jo and I unload our goodies onto a rusted, metal pushcart and confer with the Amtrak representative, who later directs our cart of treasures to a large scale built into the ground and my first thought, obviously, is Why don’t we have one of these at home?
The load comes in at around 500 lbs, give or take a ton. Jo fills out the paperwork while I “man” the car and help resolve a Martha Stewart related bet (the original Waldorf salad was, in fact, dressed with mayonnaise), and in the end we pay a little over $275 to ship 22 mislabeled boxes of books and bed sheets across the United States.
We spend the afternoon in the company of David Beahm Design and the evening in the company of friends at our old watering hole. After three tall whiskey sours I come to the sad realization that my dinner – a roasted turkey sandwich – was not roasted to perfection and, sitting in the chic, downstairs lounge at Union Square’s Coffee Shop restaurant, paranoia sets in. An attempt to focus my attention on the TV screens across the room is a total failure. I pick at something chocolate-y and chug ice water and ask someone who’s not the waitress for our bill and try not to alarm Kelly and Howie (our gracious hosts for the week) who sit across the table and whisper, “Isn’t he Irish?”
THIS PAST SATURDAY
Blocking out the horrific events of last night doesn’t seem likely – a daredevil cab driver with a need for a speed; crouching down on the sidewalk outside Kelly & Howie’s Brooklyn apartment; and clutching the lid of a bedside trash can – so I sip a rejuvenating Vitamin Water that I can’t actually taste and swear that I’ll never eat at “Unnamed Brooklyn Café Chain” ever again.
Despite the food poisoning and a mild hangover, Jo and I snap headshots in the old Dumbo studio and then hustle to midtown to shoot two David Beahm weddings: the first at the luxurious St. Regis Hotel and the other at Ciprani 42nd Street. By the end of the night we’re downright exhausted and we collapse on the couch with a pint of mango sorbet, clicker in hand, watching everything and nothing at the same time.
SUNDAY
Joanna recovers from a severe lack of sleep before we venture to Central Park’s Great Lawn for Lauren's scorching birthday picnic. The surrounding gunshots and general hoopla are the product of the notorious Puerto Rican Day Parade, but my Hispanic heritage grants us safe passage. Seated on multi-colored bed linens on the parched grass, we munch on homemade, white bread turkey and mayo sandwiches, play card games and toss around a hot Frisbee until a third partygoer collapses from heat stroke, at which point we decide it’s best to go.
Joanna joins her former boss (photographer Kathi Littwin) for dinner while I sit in a Boerum Hill Starbucks, peeking at yesterday’s headshots and witnessing a transformer explosion that eventually leads to a five-block blackout. Jo retrieves me from the blackened coffee shop and we accompany Kelly & Howie in Union Square to watch the Celtics clobber the Lakers in the second game of the series.
MONDAY
Joanna and gal pals enjoy a midday shopping spree while I kill time on a stroll through Brooklyn Heights, stopping at my favorite deli (Lassen & Hennigs on Montague) for a Pierrepont sandwich. We meet up again for coffee with our friend Ande and then head to Hell’s Kitchen for dinner at David Beahm’s smashing new apartment.
His bachelor pad comes complete with a swarm of leather armchairs and sofas that he purchased at wholesale prices and a sprawling terrace with an Ikea canopy bed and a view that could best be described as “wow.” We sip Brooklyn-brewed beers (Brian) and lime-accented cocktails (Jo) with David and Christina, talking shop and devouring hummus, goat cheese and Triscuits. Downstairs, at the neighborhood Greek restaurant, we are treated to an enthusiastic set of swinging Greek jazz and mistake a very unattractive woman for a washed-up celebrity.
The evening ends as every evening should – stretching out on the canopy bed on the penthouse terrace, looking out over the metropolis, over the ups and downs, the flourishing towers and trembling tenement buildings of a city too good to be true, and we bid New York a premature farewell.
TUESDAY
Joanna meets up with our old pal Teresa to purchase a wonderful painting of hers that will bring some much-needed Feng Shui to our new LA apartment. Meanwhile, I prepare for this afternoon’s play reading as only I know how – by spending the morning on the vacant third tier at the Chelsea Piers driving range. Looking out over the Hudson River and the banks of New Jersey, whacking at the little white globes and sending them soaring into the surrounding nets, my first thought (obviously) is, Why don’t we have one of these at home?
We hit up separate Crunch gyms for a quick workout before meeting up at the Snapple Theatre on 50th Street and Broadway. My fellow Irish Curse readers include Roderick Hill (who, like me, originated his role in the original Fringe Festival production), Patrick Boll (who participated in last reading), New York actor John Hillner and TV/film actor Dan Butler (pictured here).
The reading goes incredibly well and, although we didn’t have the attendance we were hoping for, Marty and the producers are beyond optimistic, and the lot of us head downstairs to a token Times Square Irish pub to snack on sliders, cleanse our palettes and admire our waitress’ hard Irish brogue.
We wrap up our New York tour at Kelly & Howie’s place, picking at sushi combination plates and shuddering under the incessant howl of a Brooklyn hailstorm.
WEDNESDAY
Today is Wednesday and that means it’s time to leave, which we do. We pack our things and weigh our baggage (“45 pounds! Yes!”) and get to our respective airports on time. I sit there on the plane, my buckle buckled, laptop in lap, the too-muscular blonde clearing her throat only two rows back, and because we’ll be circling on the ground for the next hour and a half, I have plenty of time to sit here and think about my life.
Unable to come to any particularly interesting conclusions, I shut the laptop down and shut my eyes and leave one world and wake up in another.
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We'd like to dedicate this particular blog to Kelly and Howie and their spare bedroom, and we're sorry that some guy backed into your car when I was driving it.
love,
bri (&jo)
2 comments:
Unbelievably hysterical...still laughing
woo hoo! i made it into the blog!!!
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