THE BEACHSleet, freezing rain, some kind of snow, and basically awful weather when I head downtown to catch a matinee of The Little Dog Laughed at the Cort Theater. Trying to talk on the phone is impossible when it feels like someone is shooting you in the face with a BB gun. You grow instantly tired and want to lie down and just go to sleep in some dirty snowdrift.
On the ground the snow is filthy grey and walking in it is like trudging through a polluted sand dune. Cars creep along filling the air with the scent of exhaust, that for some reason I find somehow appealing on snowy days. Most of the sidewalks are clear but the corners are deceptive like quicksand, so that if you don’t jump at just the right time your foot penetrates the slushy false surface and ruins shoes you shouldn’t have been wearing anyway on a day like this. Some people fail to navigate properly (see above).
At the theater my seats are on the floor all the way in the back right near the front door and it’s freezing cold the entire show. Before the performance I hear someone say “Well it looks like winter has finally arrived” and someone replies “Yes, and I hope it leaves today as well.”
The show is witty and well done and I kick myself for not taking the option to sit in the mezzanine, which I find to be at least 15 degrees warmer when I head up there after the show to use the uncrowded restroom that has these ridiculously large and ancient urinals which are a delight to piss in.
Later I meet Cara in Union Square and we eat some crappy Deli food for our anti-Valentine’s Day dinner and I practically throw up eating an over-salted egg sandwich on a salt bagel. We head to Strand Books and I pick up Cold Skin by Albert Sanchez Pinol and Haunts of the Black Masseur: The Swimmer as Hero by Charles Sprawson. I’m saved by a delicious and crazy strong Red Eye from the MUDtruck (photo by Cara) parked out front the Virgin Records store with that ridiculous window display for The Game where it looks like he’s taking a crap.
On the ground the snow is filthy grey and walking in it is like trudging through a polluted sand dune. Cars creep along filling the air with the scent of exhaust, that for some reason I find somehow appealing on snowy days. Most of the sidewalks are clear but the corners are deceptive like quicksand, so that if you don’t jump at just the right time your foot penetrates the slushy false surface and ruins shoes you shouldn’t have been wearing anyway on a day like this. Some people fail to navigate properly (see above).
At the theater my seats are on the floor all the way in the back right near the front door and it’s freezing cold the entire show. Before the performance I hear someone say “Well it looks like winter has finally arrived” and someone replies “Yes, and I hope it leaves today as well.”
The show is witty and well done and I kick myself for not taking the option to sit in the mezzanine, which I find to be at least 15 degrees warmer when I head up there after the show to use the uncrowded restroom that has these ridiculously large and ancient urinals which are a delight to piss in.
Later I meet Cara in Union Square and we eat some crappy Deli food for our anti-Valentine’s Day dinner and I practically throw up eating an over-salted egg sandwich on a salt bagel. We head to Strand Books and I pick up Cold Skin by Albert Sanchez Pinol and Haunts of the Black Masseur: The Swimmer as Hero by Charles Sprawson. I’m saved by a delicious and crazy strong Red Eye from the MUDtruck (photo by Cara) parked out front the Virgin Records store with that ridiculous window display for The Game where it looks like he’s taking a crap.
posted by Stewart A. Williams at
10:39 PM
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