2005-04-24 - 12:37 p.m.
Can I say now, with all sincerity, that until this moment, I did not know how little craft skill is required to turn a “wet paint” sign into a “aint wet” sign. To whoever discovered this wonderful fact, to you I raise my late night glass of milk, and say, with manly virulence mind you, “yay!”
Beyond this, while riding the L line, please note at the third avenue stop the oddly placed cameras and TV screens displaying the subject of said cameras. Beyond that, how ‘bout the fur collared coat drying out over the fourth floor staircase. And beyond even that, can we discuss my sister’s photograph. It’s of a ceramic frog that stands three feet high, spitting water into the air, and it’s the first thing I see when I walk into my apartment. Sort of. When I flip on the light in my kitchen, it reflects it all back, in mirror like manner, rendering me in silhouette.
It’s been a good day.
First of all, and I do know no one I know wants to hear me speak of baseball ever again, but after attending two games at Shea back to back, only to see the Mets climb the NL ladder to neigh on first, and hear some of the best trash talk ever uttered by a fat red headed man:
“You suck Estaban! Don’t worry though…you’re secret’s safe with me!”
I cannot help but feel a little tingle for the boys of Queens leaping for catches in the outfield, and knocking single after double after single in a six run inning.
It’s been a very good day.
Epic enough that I tucked my game ticket beside my admission to a collection of short films for the Tribeca Film Festival in the upper left pocket of my sister’s Christmas present: a Osh Kosh olive green jacket with enough pocket space to hold the majority of Warren Report.
I wanted to pin the two tickets up on my wall, but when I pulled out my iPod, the wind took them both and sent be dancing down Irving much to the chagrin of the drunkards making their way home at two. I salvaged one. The other is lost to time and sewage drains.
A very good day.
I dealt poker at my favorite bar, and watched a carpenter preparing to lop off his wife’s head. I used the Post to dry off my seats in the box by first base. I woke to coffee and a bagel with just the right amount of cream cheese. I got a call I didn’t expect. I bought a jersey that I shouldn’t have, but will wear with pride and hope tomorrow. A jersey I might add that called my friends to herald me as a “twat.” And you haven’t heard that word unless you’ve heard it with an English accent. Very much more fun.
A very very good day.
How about dragging myself away from the bar, with Jameson still on my breath, or maybe the four cigarettes I’ve had illegally on subway platforms in the last twenty-four hours, or maybe just the taste of well-made Sangria.
Tonight I’ll get less than four hours of sleep before I shower up and run back to see my nephew turn one, but tonight, I can smile, because whatever I’ve, read, seen, heard, smelled – I think I’m on two thousand and two flushes – one thing, no matter how many may rail against it, one thing remains true, and in that I take faith.
Faces were rocked off heads, line drives dropped into the gaps, a dog barked a flower into submission, and I spanked a subway train as it left without me.
It was…well, you get the gist.
Thank you sir, may I have another.
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