Rhyme the Rhyme Well
Friday and Saturday presented a “professional origamist,” who couldn’t even be bothered to fold a swan out of a dollar bill, and yet another, much appreciated, Ra Ra Riot show, a semi-private Brooklyn dance floor, followed by an intersection of friends outside the Knitting Factory which, although in Manhattan, always feels like the middle of nowhere.
On Sunday, Lucy convinced me to watch the World Cup so, after wandering around and taking several detours, we found a homey little neighborhood bar where we sat with a bunch of manly regulars for a game of football. I’ve never been able to stomach alcohol during daylight hours so Lucy drank for me. After the game, Lucy was suddenly craving spaghetti, which was fine by me, as I told her, “You’re in New York, now, and you can have anything you want!” We headed over to Little Italy, where we saw a little riot, and a slightly overzealous Italian get the shit kicked out of him by the NYPD for no apparent reason. At which point, Lucy jutted out her stomach in feigned pregnancy (the oldest trick in the book), allowing us to avoid the walk back through the crowd, because barricades can be so cumbersome.
In a total change of setting, we then went uptown to Central Park, to watch the Public Theater’s production of Macbeth (a stranger adaptation than I’ve ever seen, with Macduff’s army wielding rifles, instead of swords, and Lady Macbeth wearing high heels), followed by the after party, where I stood in the buffet line with Naomi Watts, who I was quite anxious to meet, yet too nervous to talk to; she really is quite lovely with her translucent skin. Finally, there was a somewhat confusing midnight stroll through Central Park, with my Scottish comrade, that I hear you’re not supposed to do, but I lived to type about anyway -- And all our yesterdays have lighted fools…