Saturday, October 21, 2006

Notes From NYC II...

I do like not working.

It was so pleasant, spending Friday in the city, making my way to the Maritime Hotel to meet John in the lobby (swanky place, that; I'm told Jagger stays there when he's in town). John always amuses me with his outfits. Sometimes, he's impossibly dapper. Yesterday, he was Friday casual: white button-down shirt, blue v-neck sweater, and paint-smeared jeans, which he wears when he works on his faux finishes in his Pennsylvania basement. We caught up for a few minutes before hopping a cab and heading to B Bar in the Bowery where his daughter was waiting for us. She's a manager at Matsuri, a sushi hotspot in the Maritime, but we met at B instead, another restaurant in part of the hospitality collection of one of Maritime's partners.

We had a lovely, leisurely lunch, we three, which was generously comped by the manager. Our server, Melisssa, was delightful. We left her a $40 tip. As the afternoon waned and we readied ourselves to go, John mentioned the photographs in the bathroom. I mentioned one in the ladies' room of Andy Warhol. John, of course, has an Andy Warhol story. Back in the day, John knew everyone, even if tangentially. John had a company called The Film Factory. Andy, of course, was The Factory. Andy wasn't pleased with John's company's moniker. John didn't care.

Miye had to get to work. John had to head for home. He and I shared a cab uptown a ways. I hopped out to head to Fishs Eddy and ABC Carpet & Home. ABC is amazing. The prices are amazing, too. I fell in love with a lamp, but I don't need it. I wouldn't need it even if it wasn't $550 on sale, which isn't a lot of money for a lamp, really. But when you don't need a lamp, it's too much to lay down.

But Patty told me that I needed to hit all the floors, so I did. I've been looking for bedding for my guest-room bed. I have a very particular idea in mind of what the fabric should be. To date, I haven't been able to find it. Must I design my own textiles, people? But then, about to leave the textile floor, I saw a throw pillow in a pattern that's very close to what I've been envisioning. The color scheme was wrong, and I want a larger print, but it's nice to know someone else is on the same wavelength. I made my way to the packaged sheets and pillowcases. Turned one over and smiled sadly. Elizabeth Allen.

One day, I asked my dear, now-departed friend Charles what I should use as a stage name if I ever become famous. His response was immediate: Elizabeth Allen.

I find reminders of him everywhere. Even in the heart of New York City.

I made my way to Patty's office and we wandered over to an auction preview. We both found things we'd be inclined to bid on, but here I am, the next day, not at the auction, so I guess I won't be bidding after all.

Her brother, also my cousin, Barry, was going to meet us for dinner, but he was having cocktails with a colleague, so Patty and I ended up at Enoteca for some lovely glasses of wine.

Dinner was at Blue Smoke, down the block. The most amazing mac and cheese. Very much like my mac and cheese, actually, just slightly sharper. I'm guessing there's some white cheddar involved.

Barry, under the influence of many martinis, demanded to know when I'm moving to New York. "You're so New York, Beth," he said. And the funny thing is, on this trip more than any other trip to New York, I feel the city. I can see myself here. I'm not sure why.

We cabbed home, we three, parted ways on the street in front of Patty's building. We readied ourselves for bed, neither of us slept very well (way too full from dinner to be comfortable), but eventually got some sleep. This morning, we watched and ridiculed the original "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," our own MST3K.

Now, finally hungry, we're about to have some parsnip soup, and then, if we stick to the loosely defined plan, we'll wander about Brooklyn. It's sunny outside, windy as all get out.

More to come. And a posting of the picture John sent of the three of us yesterday at lunch. His daughter is stunning, and he's a doll.

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