Now that my father's car was safely returned to the suburbs of New Jersey, I decided to take a wander around Manhattan. This is actually a rare occurrence--idly walking down the city blocks is usually not the first thing on my post-work agenda when I'd rather flee to the apartment. Weekend wandering doesn't count either because Saturdays and Sundays do not really begin until noon. Those are more like pointed excursionism. I took the PATH train to the newly reopened World Trade Center station. The train snakes around the tower footprint and construction site before stopping at the station. I tried to recall if the staircase and escalators are in the same spots as before. As far as I can tell, yes, they are, but the little landmarks are gone. The saddest bar in the world on the station concourse level that no sunlight ever found, where down-on-their-luck stock market traders listened to Patsy Cline and sipped scotch on the rocks, is now simply a temporary wall. On the other hand, the Hudson News seems to have taken up residence quickly. Perhaps they had squatter's rights. The only survivors of the nuclear holocaust will be cockroaches, a Duane Reade pharmacy, and a Hudson News.
The antsy Wall Street secretaries on their lunch breaks and I waited in the long line at J&R. I used up a credit that's been sitting around for two years after an attempt to purchase smaller speakers and bought Lord of the Rings: Return of the King for the GameCube. The game is kind of violent but violence is fine as long as the enemies are demons or robots. Unfortunately, I, as Gandalf, was killed many, many times. Sorry about that, Middle Earth.
Continued up Broadway and past Canal Street for some shopping. Late shoppers had a look of desperation in their eyes. I told the sales woman that I didn't need a box or gift receipt for my new shirt because the gift was for me. That statement was meant to note my expert planning rather than any sad social status. Soho is apparently full of English people. A girl in the Apple store was using one of the display computers to rip her compact discs for her iPod. I felt like a rebel for checking my email. Other Music didn't have the CD that Brian wanted; I couldn't remember the name anyway. Finally my legs gave out and I settled down at the Astor Place Starbucks with the laptop to catch up on some email. The lady at the next table was complaining about how stupid it is to leave your fingerprints on your gun.
At home for dinner and Brian and I exchanged gifts. He bought for me: (1) Jack Spade messenger bag, (2) Jonathan Adler vase (and looking through his catalog, I realize the pronunciation should be vAHse not vAYse, and (3) a button down shirt. Mr Adler's design scheme is apparently "waspy chic". I can relate since dirty rocker boy never fit on me. The diet of peanut brittle and caramel popcorn continued; I stayed up too late. Before turning off the light for the night, I read how Andy Warhol would always accept a Quaalude if offered one and then sell the pills back later.
