Up to 32nd street. Kaia and I hang out by The Future. I decide that We Run New York. She gives me lip balm. We chat. Ten minutes. We find this poster:
Walk back to 6. Go downtown. Go to the Strand. Buy The Great Gatsby, Christmas presents and this. Go to Café Reggio. Venitian Coffee. Call Harrison. Make plans for 4:30. Get call from Kaia. She’s riding her bike to MacDougal. She arrives. I finish my coffee-n-creme. Head to Harrison’s worky-work. But he’s latey-watey. So we sit in the park. He shows up, strutting in his perfumed fineries.
What now? What now? What else? MacDougal Ale house. Same bartender, same music. Gruboy shows up. Another immigrant, a Ukrane Jew with an eager demeanor and bad attitude. Paradox? You figure it out. British wankers at the bar, coked up and harassing women. I try getting Harrison to glass them. Instead they talk two portly lasses, who Gruboy sez are fellow NYU alums, into making out. I video some of it:
By now we’re all thinking about the War of 1812. But the British leave. OK! We’re still here. Incredible gossip and rumors are thrown around—shock revelations about old chums and working partners. Somewhere in here, I may or may not have given a speech about Patti Smith. I can’t remember.
OK, what next? Food. Around the Clock. What then? The worst fate comes to pass: we head to the Marz Bar. This is one of the few long standing signs of the East Village that a night has spun completely off the rails. We go in. It’s the Marz Bar. A vodka tonic is miraculously made with gin. The bartender in cat-eyed glasses fights with one of the drunks in residence. I video some of it:
Kaia cuts out. It’s me, Harrison and Gruboy. OK, eventually The Fun wears off. I go with Harrison to Brooklyn, Gruboy goes to Washington Heights. OK! We’re in Harrison’s apartment. He shows me Super Mario Galaxy, which is, eh, whatever, but then the bastard breaks out his Guitar Hero 2. Of which I’ve heard but have not played. It’s a rhythm game denuded of any of the genre’s redeeming features: i.e., embarrassing your sophisticated friends as you dance like an idiot before a tide of Korean and Latino children.
Somewhere around the Rage Against the Machine song, I realize that the game is a swan song for every asshole my age +/- five years. It’s as if God took a memo to all the children of the 1990s which reads: WELCOME TO THE REST OF YOUR HORRIBLE LIFE, YOU STUPID BASTARD. YOU’LL NEVER BE INTERESTING AGAIN. HERE’S YOUR STUPID RELIC, CHERISH AND LOVE IT. REMEMBER HOW AWESOME IT WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL AND (POSSIBLY) COLLEGE? THAT SHIT’S DONE. YOU’RE DONE. YOU’RE OVER.
Pass out and wake in the morn, cheery faced, starry eyed and waiting to see the Etters.
