I woke up this morning insanely happy. Right before I went to sleep I had a bunch of ideas about how to fix some pieces I'm working on, and I kept having to run down the stairs of the loft to write them down so that I wouldn't forget them overnight, which sometimes I tend to do. When I woke I was so invigorated by the idea that I would be able to make significant edits tonight that I felt a special kind of high, the kind you can only get from being creative. It was a very tasty feeling, and I thought for sure I was going to have a great day.
Then I had to walk a mile in the snow to get to the subway, and then I went into work and they didn't have a computer for me, and the workspace they had set up for me is right outside the HR Director's office which is sort of like sitting outside the principal's office, and then they didn't have a creative brief for me in our big meeting so I left early, so early, in fact, it was actually only lunch time. (Let's pray for an easier tomorrow for my employers, shall we?) Anyway Kerri and I were both in a funny mood and it was snowing outside and we were kind of lost in our own thoughts, so much to contemplate on a Tuesday, yes, yes, yes, and then we walked into Grand Central Station and we saw the gentlemen pictured above playing in some sort of squash championship and then we both brightened considerably because at least we weren't playing fucking squash in a fucking train station.
After that I walked in the snow some more to go see my accountant Marty and it doesn't look good this year, kids, it doesn't look good at all. I hate the idea that I am going to have to pay someone $300 to tell me I owe money, especially when I barely have the money to pay that person in the first place.
Then I took the subway forever and walked some more in the snow, stupid pissy rainy snow, through the LES, finally landing at Lotus, where I was supposed to meet Krucoff later to give him his keys back. (Don't ask me why I have his keys. I just do.) I sat by myself and then eventually a group of men, all friends, all Bohemians (I know I'm the only person left on the planet who uses that word. Fuck you. When you can think of a better word for it you let me know. And please don't let it be anything you read in like, Wired. Because I will cut you.), all from the neighborhood I guess, sat at tables surrounding me, until one of them eventually said, "It's almost like you're in our party," and they introduced themselves to me, and I smiled and carried on doodling in my notebook and reading Dumped and eavesdropping on their conversation. Their chatter was nothing extraordinary, but two really hilarious things did happen.
The first was my introduction to that cat pictured up there. His owner walks him around on a leash which was the cutest, but beyond that, and I so wish I had pictures of it, was the little babushka he had on his head to protect him from the rain. Just this little plaid piece of cloth tied around his cute little head -- like if there had been an all kitty version of Fiddler on the Roof this cat would totally have played the matchmaker. Which sort of reminds me of the end of Best in Show where the gay couple make a calendar of pictures of their dogs dressed up like characters from classic old films, but in a far, far less elaborate (and gay) way. (By the way, if you've never checked out that site and were a fan of the film, there are some great outtakes on there. Click on "Toy Group." You know you want to.) Cat's name was "Coochie" by the way.
And the second thing was this crazy stinky old lady wearing a housedress and combat boots who came in and started bumming cigarettes and talking to the guys. At one point she left her coffee and excused herself to take a "pit stop." When she came back she told us she was sad that her cats had been taken away, presumably by the city, and she whined about how she wanted to go see them. "My daughter says don't do it, you'll only hurt them because you'll only walk out on them again, and you'll hurt yourself because you can't take them with you." And then one of the guys in the group said, "That reminds me of something Malcom X said: 'You can't put kittens in the oven and call them biscuits.'"
Now wouldn't it be cute if the kittens were wearing little aprons and chef's hats?