Entourage

I've decided that for a last-summer-before-grad school treat, I'm buying a mediocre iced coffee from the cart guy on 56th & 7th every morning before work. It's only been about a week that I've been purchasing coffees from the cart guy, and already he knows me (a little milk, one sugar, no bag, no donuts). I love New York cart guys.

Anyway, this morning, coffee in hand, iPod in ears, sunglasses on, I trudge up the steps toward the revolving door that leads into my building. Standing in front of said door are about ten suited men, hogging the entryway. Get the fuck out of my way, suits. As I get closer to the mob, I notice that several of the men's left ears are sporting curly white wires. I slow a bit, but basically prance myself into the middle of the mob and sashay through the revolving door. The wire men check me out. Apparently I was cleared.

I turn back to see who is causing this glut, and notice that the entire crew is moving through the door, right behind me. Popping up in the middle of the entourage is the governor of New York, George Pataki, in all of his 6 foot 5 and camera-ready coiffed glory. Next to him is a man that, in heels, would be about 5 foot 8, head tilted all the way back, chattering away at George's upper arm. I speed up. As I pass the building security guys (who look stiff and scared shitless), the refrain "here he comes," "here he comes," follows me, cascading dominos. A youngish woman in a mosaic-patterned wrap dress and peep-toe stilettos stands in front of me, hands clasped and arms stretched long. She is doing an excellent job of waiting. She looks through me, parts her lips slightly and strides forward to receive the governor. I continue on, clutching my coffee, and flash my badge to guards with bigger fish to fry.

I kind of wish it had been Donald Trump. Now that's an entourage I'd like to see.

Oh Egypt, My Egypt

Last Tuesday, a large aircraft rudely deposited me back onto the streets of Brooklyn from the land of fire ants and flame trees. Thud.

My trip seems otherworldly, like I was shooed into a waiting spaceship hidden behind giant curtains and strategically placed foliage to fly up and out of the atmosphere. Like everyone else on board was an astronaut and I the teacher from New Hampshire. I got the coveted point-of-view, won the lottery without even picking five.

The goats on the shores of the Nile were placed there for my enjoyment. The little ones, especially. The word galabaya? Invented for my pleasure. Nubian culture exists only to create the chest scoop and stomach drop I experience when I just think the word "Nubian." Sakkara beer, the goddess Mut, heiroglyphics -- I bet you didn't know this, but they arranged their atoms for me and me alone.

Re-entry is a bitch. Change in pressure from none to constant. The food's different. My fellow astronauts are gone, back to California and Pennsylvania. We'll next see each other at a mission reunion in Ft. Lauderdale, sipping whiskey sours awkwardly from plastic stemware.

I'm a disjointed mess, mourning my trip. But I promise, there are stories to tell.

It's Been a Month and This is All I Can Muster

Which fucked-up genius composer are you?

Nick Cave... dark and creepy. You're a bi-polar genius, with equal passion for the most degrading aspects of humanity, as well as the beauty & wonder of God and Heaven.
Take this quiz!








Quizilla |
Join

| Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code