Fresh off the plane, where I spent roughly five and a half hours sitting next to the cutest little lab puppies and their super-kind handlers- bred at Guide Dogs of America Los Angeles and bound for a GDANYC trade-off, Keegan met me at Jamaica Station. (Cabs to and from the airport are such a money & time suck, Birds; between the traffic and bad weather, they don’t get you to your destination any faster and cost a lot more.)
From the train, we went to his apartment. (By the way, did I mention to you that I’m back in New York for awhile?)
From his apartment, we went to Astor Bake Shop, a favorite cafe of mine in my old nabe, Astoria.The garlic herb fries and tomato basil soup were delicious; the side of fries were so filling I couldn’t finish my soup. A to-go container and a coffee later, Keegan and I decided to walk the twenty or so blocks back to his place, nixing the train in favor of enjoying the crisp air. (The day previous had been “crazy cold!”, or so I’m told. I was pleasantly surprised that temperatures were above freezing when I hopped off the train. Just a light drizzle yesterday afternoon.)
Knowing that I would later meet up with Junenoire, I did not indulge in dessert. (Bummer though, because ABS almost always has something delicious and gluten-free on hand). Then, after tucking Keegan in (LOL, this did not really happen, and he didn’t rest as much as he should have, being such a “sickey” and all), I hopped the train once more, headed to LIC Market, yes, in LIC.
Turns out the place was closed, not a single light on. Due to cold weather schedule changes? Who knows, but there was more than one person who walked along the street to see if the place was open, only to be just as disappointed as the two of us.
Where to go? Cranky’s, of course, as Junenoire and Arianys’ pet photography display is officially up on the exposed brick walls inside. The black and white display flows nicely with decor and genial atmosphere; the two women working, possessing the requisite French accent all cool girls lust after, whom Junenoire was more than familiar with, explained that there was to be a live nude-drawing session that evening. (Sit and sketch is reservations only.) Junenoire also informed me about a weekend puppet-show for kids. The place doesn’t strike you as a place to bring children, but the hostess was friendly enough that you could imagine a Sesame-Street type show. (You know the kind- laced with adult innuendo perhaps?, floating over the tops of small children’s requisite bowl cuts and crooked bangs.) So, over her Cobb salad and my side of grilled asparagus, we indulged in a little girl talk. She regretted that she didn’t have anything new to tell me, to which I say, “Bullshit!”, because lady love is totes in the midst of a very comedic love-triangle of sorts. (Open relationships- how are we feeling about those these days, Birds?)
The food? Yum, yum, yum. Cajun-influence done properly.
But where’s Becky to be found amidst all of this milleiu? Our favorite little Nin-Jew? (Ninja + Jew, duh.)
And so it was back to the apartment, this time in Junenoire’s little car, dubbed her little Roller Skate, to collect Becky. (A zippy little hatch-back, the name is fitting.) Along the way, we lamented that we don’t know anyone with roof access anymore, and that such luxuries are slowly becoming a thing of the past.
Hellos aside, we dragged ourselves, and by dragged, I mean walked a block and a half, to Rest-Au-Rant, for some wine, smoking, and a comedy show.
More like shit-show. Over a bottle of red, deftly trying to ignore the short, pale boy-man with the mic in his hand, the three of us reflected over the last year of our lives, or in Becky’s case- she’s only just moved to New York- the last three months. The comedy show was thankfully on it’s last leg, and afterwards, the three of us agreed when Junenoire remarked that it was a comedy show full of inside jokes. (The comedians found each other very, very funny)
But, of course. (I didn’t even grant a pity laugh; that’s how tedious I found it.)
And then we puffed like chimneys on our respective cloves and ciggys, snuggled up on the bed like the three little glutonous, happy piglets that we were, and skyped Womb Buddy.
Why?
So we could tease him mercilessly, of course, about not being at our little reunion and his ever-expanding forehead. (Balding must be so traumatic for men, no?)
And so, yes, we were queens for a day. Queens of the Slashies (Western Queens has slash-everything; gas station/groceries stores, cafe/bars, etc.)
It was glorious.
Now I’m at work, writing in Cafe Cafe down in Soho. (They always have a gluten-free option or two on hand.) I had to make it past The Goodwife film crew, past a pile of cute vespas and scooters, and finally, past the largest dog I’ve seen in this city in some time, possible EVER.
Becky headed to the Bronx this morning for work, yes, wearing a penis-hat.
Junenoire is uptown, working. (She also left her glasses, LOL, see ransom photo of myself wearing them in slideshow, sent to her via text this morning.)
Keegan is running to a shipping center.
And tonight, undercover of darkness . . . we’ll be fat little piglets once more!
(Slideshow below, of course.)
