Remembrance of Things Past

I always pick the Art Bar for some reason, even when it’s warm and I want to sit outside. So on Friday I was walking there to meet someone and I was walking on West Fourth Street where it hits West Twelfth at that narrow, cobble-stone intersection with Cubby Hole on one corner and Café Cluny on the other. I was a little early, so I decided to poke my head into Café Cluny, knowing that an old friend of mine is the manager there. I found this out recently because she was profiled in an online feature for New York Magazine.

The last time we’d spoken was in September, I think, before I went out to LA. The last time before that was years ago. We hadn’t seen each other in person since 2000, when we worked at a theatre in Connecticut. In the meantime, she’d been all over: Florida, New York, Los Angeles, St. Louis, then back to New York. She’d gotten married and divorced. Her sister had been in a car accident and, I was told, lost one of her fingers.

When she saw me, she let out a little yelp and came out onto the sidewalk and we both embraced. We said how long it’s been and how strange it was that it had been so long. I told her that I had to run, but I said I’d call and that was that. However, once I got to the Art Bar, a messenger from Café Cluny was fast on my heels with a card that said to bring my friend there for a free drink. My friend and I had several free drinks and before I knew it, I was in a cab to Brooklyn thinking how long it had been since I’d taken a cab to Brooklyn, how beautiful the bridge was and the water.

The heat arrived the next morning and I took an hour, maybe less, to wander down Fifth Avenue in Park Slope, back to the old apartment at Union Street. I noted the changes and what had stayed the same. I also noticed, maybe for the first time, how quiet Park Slope seemed compared to Morningside Heights. I’d forgotten what a difference Manhattan density makes, even on the fringes. I was sad to see Mule Café on Fourth Avenue boarded up. I'd spent so much time there. I would go there before work and sit for long stretches of time drinking coffee and reading Anna Karenina.

In the end it was too hot to walk and I retreated to the subway and hastened back to Manhattan and, reflexively, Doma. French toast and eggs fortified me, but I didn’t get much work done and I think I fell asleep in my chair once or twice, dreaming, no doubt of Whitman on the bridge or reading in Prospect Park. Those were the days.

Party People

Friday night revelry at Aubergine. I was surprised at the turnout, but then I’m surprised by everything these days. Yesterday I spent the early evening surviving an overly generous happy hour at Rue B in the East Village and I was surprised to find my iPod skipping directly to Ryan Adams as I wandered the Village, east-to-west, devouring the Adams oeuvre while I passed 166 First Avenue thinking, “what has happened . . . ?” Anyway. The party. Carla, Damen and Pamela played host while I nipped in here and there. Lots of actors and then a smaller cohort of skinny, international Parsons students who were friends of Pam. I sat at the head of the table and tucked into my chicken Indian wrap thing from Roti Roll and chatted with some of the cast members of The Great American All-Star Traveling War Machine, Damen’s play at Irondale . . . which, as it happens, is playing at Theatre for a New Audience, directly across the street from 166 First Avenue, and so we come full-circle.

Two coincidental run-ins at the party, neither of which I really did much with except to marvel. First, there was the ex-girlfriend of a friend of mine from high school. This friend of mine from high school works for an agency in Los Angeles and is also friends with a closer friend of mine from high school named Mike, who gave me the lowdown on this girl through a series of text messages that evening. What would we do without cellphones?

Secondly, there was an actor I’d done a show with two summers ago whose name is Jake. I kind of forget how he ended up at the party, but I think he’s friends with Damen or Carla or both. In any event, he’s an actor and there were lots of actors there, so go figure. He’d just concluded a show at some theatre in California with a bunch of douchy actorly grad students. There was a Juilliard kid who kept making droll references to “the Yard.” I thought this was hilarious.

There followed a desultory interlude with a woman whose name I remember but won’t divulge and this included a tour of the house and me growing increasingly wary. We eventually wandered down to the basement and were relieved by the impromptu jazz combo that had set up by candlelight in the old classroom. Inevitably, everyone made their way out back to the garden and started smoking, because there comes a time at every party where everyone becomes, momentarily, a smoker.

I made it to bed around 3:00, I think, waking a few hours later to the mechanical wheeze of a garbage truck that was taking its sweet fucking time with things. Earplugs in, I snuck in a few more hours of sleep and then stumbled, empty-stomached, down to Doma where I planted myself at the center table, my usual perch.

Not a bad weekend, but a bit lonely, to be sure. I’m not sure how singledom suits me and there’s only so much introspection one can take. The (re-)discovery of Ryan Adams has been a paradoxical tonic: depressive and inspiring all at once. His output at least inspires, but he shows a remarkable lack of style when it comes to titling songs. To wit: “Tennessee Sucks,” “Oh My God, Whatever, Etc,” “Note to Self: Don’t Die,” “The Drugs Not Working.” The names may not be melodious, but the tunes sing, thank God. I’ll be stuck in repeat all week.