Moet & Chandon
Where to start? Things have gone undoubtedly out of hands since No.3 arrived; which, of course, was to be expected.
First, he did find Port Authority AND Bleeker AND the restaurant. I suspect that he worked hard on the Guide du Routard, though, just so that he wouldn't have to bear with my sarcasms.
This being said, it's hard to put everything back together into any coherent, chronological order. One thing is sure is that I somehow managed to appear everyday at work (from 5 pm to 1 am) 1) shaved 2) not THAT late 3) sober enough not to break anything.
Interestingly enough, statistics recording my consumption of cigarettes and alcoholic beverages have skyrocketed. This is not without influencing my performances on the point 2) above mentioned, since it's getting harder to beat the train when it arrives at a station that I only see in an improbable and ethilic distance.
If that makes sense...
I still have to deal with the university I graduated in in France and where they destroyed the archives of the past few years and are thus technically unable to send my transcripts to Columbia and NYU. So today, I went to the literary agency and ask a big favor to my ex-coworkers and managed to scan the copies of the transcript I had just enough time as everybody there had to catch a plane, a train or a cab to flee the City for Thxgiving.
Yesterday, after work, Raph & yours truly went hunting for a nice place to hang out. We started at Le Souk in the East Village, where you can smoke hookas while enjoying your beer. But all the hookas were already taken and my friend who is usually the DJ there was reported MIA so we promptly left and finally ended in a bar which is a kind of Communist paradox and which is aka the KGB. We had a strange time there, getting our J. Daniels from a skinny Asian guy. It was soon obvious that he was on something, Raph and I arguing fiercely as to what the product might be. Still, the KGB definitely scored some points, though I can't give the reasons here, nor even hint. Just go there. It looks like a Communist nightmare, though, but after a few drinks it's easy to forget your Russian and be blind to the early 20th century propaganda.
Tonight after work and a lot of (good) wine, we ended up at Madame X, on W. Houston, with Maureen and this Italian guy I hardly know and for some reason that must have made a lot of sense back then but I can't recall now, we had two bottles of Moet & Chandon Rose. Delicious. And when you feel like your no longer drunk, you can get a nice buzz just by glancing at the bill.
Obviously I'm still drunk, now, while the city is waking up and Raph is snoring on the floor, and I don't even want to think about the tons of things that need to get done urgently tomorrow.
On the floor, there's also this 400-page manuscript that the President of the agency gave me this morning, while I was waiting to use the scanner. A report is due for Monday.
And tomorrow is Thursday and I promised to meet Sara which makes tomorrow's schedule look like some paradoxical impossibility likely to tear the fabric of the space-time continuum and its immediate outskirts.
I have to grant Raph that in about five days he already has two girlfriends, which shows that he obviously made huge progress in English since back in the days when I was briefing him on the eves of his exams.
Enough now. I'll have to edit this one of these days.
NB: When I say tomorrow, I always mean after I get some sleep. Even if it's now half past six in the morning, I refuse to consider that this is a new day until I got some sleep.
First, he did find Port Authority AND Bleeker AND the restaurant. I suspect that he worked hard on the Guide du Routard, though, just so that he wouldn't have to bear with my sarcasms.
This being said, it's hard to put everything back together into any coherent, chronological order. One thing is sure is that I somehow managed to appear everyday at work (from 5 pm to 1 am) 1) shaved 2) not THAT late 3) sober enough not to break anything.
Interestingly enough, statistics recording my consumption of cigarettes and alcoholic beverages have skyrocketed. This is not without influencing my performances on the point 2) above mentioned, since it's getting harder to beat the train when it arrives at a station that I only see in an improbable and ethilic distance.
If that makes sense...
I still have to deal with the university I graduated in in France and where they destroyed the archives of the past few years and are thus technically unable to send my transcripts to Columbia and NYU. So today, I went to the literary agency and ask a big favor to my ex-coworkers and managed to scan the copies of the transcript I had just enough time as everybody there had to catch a plane, a train or a cab to flee the City for Thxgiving.
Yesterday, after work, Raph & yours truly went hunting for a nice place to hang out. We started at Le Souk in the East Village, where you can smoke hookas while enjoying your beer. But all the hookas were already taken and my friend who is usually the DJ there was reported MIA so we promptly left and finally ended in a bar which is a kind of Communist paradox and which is aka the KGB. We had a strange time there, getting our J. Daniels from a skinny Asian guy. It was soon obvious that he was on something, Raph and I arguing fiercely as to what the product might be. Still, the KGB definitely scored some points, though I can't give the reasons here, nor even hint. Just go there. It looks like a Communist nightmare, though, but after a few drinks it's easy to forget your Russian and be blind to the early 20th century propaganda.
Tonight after work and a lot of (good) wine, we ended up at Madame X, on W. Houston, with Maureen and this Italian guy I hardly know and for some reason that must have made a lot of sense back then but I can't recall now, we had two bottles of Moet & Chandon Rose. Delicious. And when you feel like your no longer drunk, you can get a nice buzz just by glancing at the bill.
Obviously I'm still drunk, now, while the city is waking up and Raph is snoring on the floor, and I don't even want to think about the tons of things that need to get done urgently tomorrow.
On the floor, there's also this 400-page manuscript that the President of the agency gave me this morning, while I was waiting to use the scanner. A report is due for Monday.
And tomorrow is Thursday and I promised to meet Sara which makes tomorrow's schedule look like some paradoxical impossibility likely to tear the fabric of the space-time continuum and its immediate outskirts.
I have to grant Raph that in about five days he already has two girlfriends, which shows that he obviously made huge progress in English since back in the days when I was briefing him on the eves of his exams.
Enough now. I'll have to edit this one of these days.
NB: When I say tomorrow, I always mean after I get some sleep. Even if it's now half past six in the morning, I refuse to consider that this is a new day until I got some sleep.
posted by Cecyl at 6:35 AM
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