Bestest place in the universe.
I’m typing this at a kitchen table. At a kitchen table. New Yorkers will understand; this is the prize of all prizes, to have a table in the kitchen. It makes me feel like writing. That novel that I’ve been stopping/starting for years may actually start-and-or-stop again at this very table.
Scrap and I got Wendy’s at a drive-through last night (“It’s a good Wendy’s,” said Scrap about the one in my new neighborhood) after hauling a big TV over from P.C. Richard’s in his car (a New Yorker with a car being the one thing rarer than a New Yorker with an eat-in kitchen). We ate it at this very table. I was astonished to be doing this in my own house.
(My new TV, though large, is the throwback, tube-style. What do I need of the flat-screen? In P.C. Richard’s, I pulled out a tape-measure to see if the TV would fit on my TV table, and the salesman whipped out his own tape-measure and held it up against a flat-panel, grinning. Sigh. My display-quality is not great, but TV just isn’t that huge a part of my life to spend more on it than a laptop. Although I do harbor fantasies of at last watching Lawrence of Arabia)
I now live in an unfashionable part of Brooklyn. There’s lots of greenery, and a relative proximity to DiFara’s pizza. Quick into Manhattan on an express train, although I don’t know if that’ll mean shit to me; half the reason I decided to get a big apartment was that I was staying home all day, writing songs and then websurfing and then writing songs again.