Maybe Jewel can speak to the cats, in her secret, soothing Jewel language.
Trying to cat whisper today, and kinda failing. Bring in the feline energy healers!
It’s no secret that I’m a professional drinker, and nothing pleases me more than day drinking in Red Hook, which despite my neighborhood’s low density and (somewhat) isolated location, is a great area to barhop. Nobody lives here yet somehow there are dozens of bars full of people, especially on weekends.
I’ve been feeling sidelined recently by all my friends who are in intense, complicated relationships, which seems to be everyone these days, so Soraya, who’s thankfully not in a relationship, and I met up yesterday to bitch about couples and talk at length about being happily single whores (read: kind of unhappily single); inevitably, dick always becomes the topic of loud conversation. The people at Brooklyn Ice House are used to this by now, so we decided to go to Applebees-by-the-Sea (read: Brooklyn Crab) instead, to give the strangely bro-y bartenders an earful as we slurped our very phallic piña coladas, which are basically just frozen rum and some pieces of fruit. Perfect. Pretty soon we were “feeling good,” as Soraya put it (read: wasted), so we decided to take a stroll to the Pier 44 Waterfront Garden, which is on my to-do list of places to do inappropriate things in at night. During the day though, it’s full of kids destroying everything in sight and flinging dirt around, not exactly something I want to be around.
So we ducked into the Lehigh Barge, which has been floating in Red Hook for a very long time. It’s super cute, full of little paintings of ships, and it’s pleasantly Working Class Chic, with work boots doubling as potted plants.
It was spared of any Sandy damage because, being a well-moored boat, it didn’t go anywhere but up, then down, during the storm surge.
Families seemed to be the unfortunate theme of the day, as there was one at nearby Valentino Pier, testing out a homemade canoe near a bunch of rocks and waves, which seemed a risky proposition.
Alas no one died, so being bored, Soraya and I went to Ice House, where we often end up, drowning our sorrows at the end of the day in Bloody Cooters, a secret drink made just for us by bartender Taylor - another one of those fruity ones that’s kind of like four different date rape drugs rolled into one and topped with pineapple juice. When you order one you’re basically saying goodbye to your family and friends.
But no, this particular Ice House journey was Bloody Cooter-free and just a stopover to Soraya’s roof, the quintessential summer spot, with magnificent views and a scary, wobbly ladder you have to climb to get to it.
We brought up a blanket, and since we’re classy, a bunch of tall-boys.
My skin never sees the sun so I thought it might be nice not to look like a dead person. I took off my shirt, put on Soraya’s Valentino glasses, which are kind of like spectral shields, and laid very still, while she stretched out like a cat, her skin aglow.
Sunsets are really incredible out here, framed as they are by downtown Manhattan on one side, and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge on the other. In between, the Statue of Liberty and all the white, New York Harbor sailboats are streaked in color.
Casting a long shadow, Soraya looked out over the skyline - just a mass of immobile forms, clustered together and quiet. The air felt somehow different, and the city, very far.
My Saturday (when I’m not writing on Alan Reid for Frieze).
I went to Coney Island on Saturday on what I billed as a far-away vacation. And though it really wasn’t far, it felt far, which is all that matters.
I haven’t been to Coney in two years or so, and I’m glad to say that post-Sandy, post-city re-development, it’s still a place where all kinds of people, Puerto Ricans, Hindus, hipsters, and others can get a little trashy together.
And Coney is still home to these weird boardwalk dance parties of old people, who literally dance all day. Are they drunk? Are they on coke? I don’t know, but somehow they don’t stop, even when they’re practically tilting over from exhaustion. Or sun stroke.
I didn’t join in, because I’m not over the age of 65, but I wanted to. I can only hope that my elderly years in abject poverty will be spent dancing on the boardwalk like an old drunk, as if no one was watching.