Love in an elevator

After the whole banality of evil passion play at the Post Office today in Bushwick with me trying and failing to get my passport renewed, I just wanted to take a nap and wake up in two years when terror reigns and Post Office bureaucrats are hunted openly in the streets.

I drugged myself because it was obvious that my hormones had had their way with me and a nap, regardless of length, would do me good.

I woke up, not years, but merely hours into the future with a cheerier outlook on life but little will to pursue it. It was humid and stormy. The lightning and thunder this evening were entertainment enough. And on top of having to deal with Mark Ronson happily married and Alex Edelman similarly (but not legally) ensconced with Hannah Einbeinder, I had to deal with the news of Jack Antonoff’s engagement to Margaret Qualley. The news was plane as the nose bride on my face (I have a very flat nose): hot Jewish guys only want hot and talented daughters of famous actors. It was bleak I tell you.

I braved the elements and made my way to Barboncino. I ordered a bourbon and root beer and sat at the bar to catch the last 20 minutes of the boys playing. But this night…this night, mes amis…they were on fire. They played the hits and then began to just jam. And no they didn’t hit every note or even every beat. But they played to my heart’s content.

It was apparent, from cursory conversation with the musicians that I’d need to catch up with rounds to match their state. And I negotiated their first bonus. Someone wanted to tip them but they don’t have a bucket. I relieved him of his $20 and handed it over, sans commission.

And afterwards, at Nikola’s, there were inside jokes and callbacks, chips, Mexican beers, albums, full on stories, and catharsis. Catharsis is what I craved. It was what I needed like a salve to my bruised and battered soul.

Chicano Batman was mentioned. Aerosmith. Khruangbin. Erykah Badu. Gary Clark, Jr. Zepplin. Radiohead, John Fruiscante. Zappa. I can’t remember it all. Except that it was a balm on this weary heart o’ mine.

Mikey recounted his weekend with the former Lost Boys of Albany and a day spent white water rafting in the Adirondacks. He even dropped Troy in Nikola’s vestibule to show me his burnt-to-a-crisp thighs.

Home, at last, I am content.

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