I Got to Carnegie Hall
And I didn't even have to practice. Just buy a ticket. Two tickets, actually- in the hope that my Curmudgeonly Companion would enjoy a night out on the town. But alas, Jane Siberry (my stranded-on-a desert-island favorite singer, whose music always seems to have accompanied sea-changes in my life) is anathema to Lady Curmudgeon. So I got to sell my extra ticket on the open-air street carnival circus that is Craigslist.
Craigslist is a wonderful, loathesome, fascinating schizophrenic gathering place for the best and worst that NYC has to offer. With just a few clicks of the mouse you can find yourself a job, have a Missed Connection with one of the hotties at your new workplace, find a killer apartment to rendezvous with your newly Made Connection workplace hottie, locate a willing third or fourth to set up a ménage à trois or ménage à quatre at your new digs, compose a scathing Rant about how the Republicans have put the kibosh on your little orgy by ruining your ability to achieve and maintain an erection and finally, read that your new hottie has broken up with you because of said Political Dysfunction. Sometimes, this all happens on the same day.
So, Dear Reader, you may appreciate the trepidation with which I opened the first response to my ticket offer. The sender had a weird-sounding name (weird to my small-town sensibilities, where folks employed acceptable monikers like "Pete" or "Sue" or "Bud Jr.") and could easily have been a grifter, slack-jawed roustabout or even a reprobate. Smelling a rat (Craigsters have been known to resemble street people, only with ripped abs, enormous genitals and much better internet connections), I demanded an initial meeting to exchange ticket and money. So as not to get left standing at the altar, so to speak.
She was beautiful. Smart and funny and interesting and engaging, and our cup of coffee went by much too quickly. She did stand me up on concert night; I didn't find out until afterwards that she arrived late and as a result, was seated in the center of the very first row. THE VERY FIRST ROW. Close enough to see the spit fly and the eyes glisten and to be the first to feel the shock waves of emotion emanating from this enormously emotive singer. I know it really wasn't a date, it was just a
business transaction and she was literally young enough to be a Curmudgeon's Daughter. But the surprise little kiss she gave me when we parted at the subway entrance lingered on my cheek all the way home, and well into the night. God, I love New York.
Craigslist is a wonderful, loathesome, fascinating schizophrenic gathering place for the best and worst that NYC has to offer. With just a few clicks of the mouse you can find yourself a job, have a Missed Connection with one of the hotties at your new workplace, find a killer apartment to rendezvous with your newly Made Connection workplace hottie, locate a willing third or fourth to set up a ménage à trois or ménage à quatre at your new digs, compose a scathing Rant about how the Republicans have put the kibosh on your little orgy by ruining your ability to achieve and maintain an erection and finally, read that your new hottie has broken up with you because of said Political Dysfunction. Sometimes, this all happens on the same day.
So, Dear Reader, you may appreciate the trepidation with which I opened the first response to my ticket offer. The sender had a weird-sounding name (weird to my small-town sensibilities, where folks employed acceptable monikers like "Pete" or "Sue" or "Bud Jr.") and could easily have been a grifter, slack-jawed roustabout or even a reprobate. Smelling a rat (Craigsters have been known to resemble street people, only with ripped abs, enormous genitals and much better internet connections), I demanded an initial meeting to exchange ticket and money. So as not to get left standing at the altar, so to speak.
She was beautiful. Smart and funny and interesting and engaging, and our cup of coffee went by much too quickly. She did stand me up on concert night; I didn't find out until afterwards that she arrived late and as a result, was seated in the center of the very first row. THE VERY FIRST ROW. Close enough to see the spit fly and the eyes glisten and to be the first to feel the shock waves of emotion emanating from this enormously emotive singer. I know it really wasn't a date, it was just a
business transaction and she was literally young enough to be a Curmudgeon's Daughter. But the surprise little kiss she gave me when we parted at the subway entrance lingered on my cheek all the way home, and well into the night. God, I love New York.
posted by Curmudgeon at 11:17 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home