mardi, septembre 13, 2005

PM to AM*

I left the hair shop saturday morn thinking it could have been the most beautiful day in the world. A dear corporate serf called to cancel lunch and a couple of my curls fell in dissapointment. Instead of resting exhausted limbs I called the crew to meet me at Barbuto. We lingered, between Jane and 12th, shaded from the sweet sun in the open air garage turned eatery then marched across town with Cliquot laboriously toting a just picked up package of goodies shipped from a financially secure family member in H-town. Broken Flowers followed. Didn't realize the Coffee & Cigarettes dude was behind it. D, disgusted with my frat boy film sensibilities, made me see the meditation on banal caffeine and nicotine fueled encounters. Joie Lee was in it and I saw her on Fulton on my way home from work today headachy from little sleep and an iced vanilla soy latte. Anyway, I don't really like Bill Murray but whatever I'm kinda enamored with the juxtaposition of brokeness and flowers. After the interminable commercials/previews it began quietly (and facilitated some ten dollar sleep). Literally. There was no fucking dialogue. Standard screenplays are 200 pages. This one had to be 50 at most. Jeffrey Wright sounded like a white dude doing a fucked up arab accent. He was supposed to be Jamaican. And I swear by that dude and not just because he flirted with me at the 7th Ave Key Food a year a half ago when I used to live by myself in a lovely studio on Garfield Place next to a horrid blackish man with a wierd accent who yelled a lot. Sometimes at me. So that was Saturday. A good day. I am grateful for my day's companions. Celestial beings.

Sunday was the regular routine after which I didn't nap but tidied and then straphanged it into the city to galavant with the globetrotting out of towner and the aforementioned Cliquot. We walked to Table 50 first which wasn't even open--I'm not fucking with 50 any more not that I was ever a devotee--then cabbed it to PM. Made our way in expecting unjumpoffedness but were welcomed by raucous revelry and Kamaal the Abstract dropping a bunch of Tribe joints. OK. But as quick as I could down a French martini and pee pee, 'tip dropped "Award Tour" and dropped out of sight for the rest of the eve which was cool. His back ups handled it. A lil' Philadelphia "fuck niggas up laugh about it" Freeway, a fair amount of Kanye (btw Miri stopped by for an impromptu performance), some new Pharrell that wasn't nobody feelin' but the G4 manipulating drop not exactly on the onester, plenty pitbull, jeezy to indifferent reception, Dipset to glorious exuberance, Luther, Alicia Myers and some other shit that made me smile. Not really the most negro spot but what trendy spots are.

After 3 seconds of grown up jobedness I'm officially over 9-5erie. 7:45am wake up call precludes gregarity 'til break of dawn and my check's spent by the time I get it 'cause shopping on my lunch break is what gets me through the day.
Gracias to the two women, mother and sis, superwomen who sheltered me from work so I could focus on being smart. It's such a shame geniusness didn't work out.

*As I explained to Juicy via phone, I am a slave to unclichédness, which necessitates skating backwards a lot of the time and helps account for my permanent full body bruise so naturally I took the Christina Milián song that popped into my mouth saturday flipped it and reversed it.