Since this is a closed-audience group, I don’t think she will mind that I share with you all how this weekend has been going.
As I had left off, I was en route to my usual haunt, Graham Avenue. Daddy’s was poppin’. In trusty fashion, the Margavezas were flowing, eyeliner a-plenty on the doe-eyed gals wondering why they had never invented that drink. Tiny universes were convening in every nook and cranny, crammed into circular banquettes, resting near a fireless mantle, weaving around the expansive horseshoe-shaped bar. Everywhere and nowhere there could be someone you maybe know or maybe don’t know. This turned out to be an evening of knowing.
Did everyone come to Williamsburg this weekend?
Even Whitey from Philly made an appearance, guest of Mike Industrial, natch.
I had a great time. I shot the shit with everyone I know– all my girlfriends in Brooklyn, Mon-Mon, Whitey, Mike Industrial, then… All these Philly people showed up! Then… Blake showed up. And THEN, my frenemy and cronie from high school showed up. (They are a duo).
I lost Mon-Mon in the fold. The bar is very dark and wooden. It’s very easy to blend into the background. That’s actually my favorite thing about Williamsburg- all of the bars are pitch black. If a place is not pitch black, you can’t trust it.
Eh, well, you know how I am, I wandered off to the backyard, got into some sort of joke contest with Whitey, and he offered to drive me home. I didn’t see Mon anywhere, but figured she was fine because she had run into all of her coworkers!
It was a luxury to ride in Whitey’s band van, A ‘99 Ford E-150, which was not too junked out, but definitely full of stuff. In a flash we were at the corner of Meserole Avenue and Dobbin Street. He gave me a gentlemanly hug and raise of the hat, and I headed inside.
Unlocking the door to my bedroom from the stairwell, “Charli…,” calls a raspy croak from a nest of blankets on the floor on the opposite side of the room.
“Mon?”
“Charli. Yes, I’m here,” she sighed.
“OMG, that Whitey is such a gentleman…” I swoon, stumbling to the bed. “Mon, what are you doing on the floor?”
“I’m done. I’m done with them all.”
“Done what?”
“I just annihilated my friends list.”
“What?”
“Everybody’s gone. Well, not you. And not my sisters.”
“Ummm… what are you talking about?”
“I just. Sorry. I can’t breathe well. I’m exhausted. Anyway, most people are chumps so I DELETED them all! So long, suckers!”
“Ohhhhhhh, you’re deleting people on Myspace?”
“Sam Heighten? Good bye! Craig Caldonia? Good bye! Maxine the bartendress? Good bye!”
deux mille six 