I got to work at around, like, 7:15, give or take a minute. Not something I want to do all the time, but good to know I could go to work at that time if I had to. Picked up 2 dozen bagels and some lox and cream cheese and I know I ordered butter but it didn’t seem to make it the bag. I thought I’d make do with what might be in the fridge, but it turned out not to be enough. That meant I had to run around Soho and search for butter. I bought a quarter pound for a buck twenty five.
I should’ve gone east instead of west. More residential eastward. It was hot and sweaty as I started to set up this meeting. I was drenched. It was quite muggy out. Luckily me being not so dumb after all had an extra t shirt. I took binder clips to my t shirt and pinned the clips to the wall in a dry deserted room, behind the door.
One of the visitors was Andre Harrell, founder of Uptown Records, notoriously once President of Motown Records, for a year when he didn’t really do anything but hype himself. He’s also responsible for giving Poof Daddy his first break. Then he fired Poofy and Poofy started Bad Boy Records. When Andre was overthrown he went to work for who else? Poofy. He looked nice and seemed humbled. No more Bentley’s for him. A yellow cab will do. He’s working for a good cause, The RED thing. Bono from some band is throwing his weight behind it as well. So you know it’s got to be big.
Of course, after laying out a spread of bagels and danish, it went mostly untouched. I put it in the kitchen with the other Friday treats, and it was devoured more or less within an hour. More tales from Felicia involving a tryst with a coworker and his wife. After a night of partying. It seems that Augusten Burroughs knew of what he was writing about when he wrote, ‘Dry’. I look like a prude next to these people. Apparently a lot of ideas are written on cocktail napkins at 1:00 in the morning.
Another surprise was the fact the owner of the company showing up in the office. People knew he was going to be in, no one knew when. When came around 10:30. Nice British gent. If he likes you, he likes you. If he doesn’t, he totally ignores you. I guess he liked me. I was ingratiating, but I certainly didn’t kiss his arse. He had a meeting and I ran out and got him some sandwiches and soft drinks. His ideas take place at 1:00 in the afternoon.
After the meeting he sat in, for lack of a better word, bullpen. He was the type to roll up his sleeves and getting dusty, rather than dirty. He’s a clean man that Alistair Whatnot. I had to leave earlier than usual to go see Philip Beansprout with Bill. It was a monsoon when I left work and hopped on a 1 train and it was marked as a 5 train. It was running local and was nearly packed. It was local all the tedious way up to Times Square, when it got even more crowded. That’s at the time the announcement said ‘Next stop 72nd street’. No more local stops. I couldn’t get out. I had no choice, it was up to 72nd street for me. Luckily they improved the station and I transferred. It used to be that you had to pay full price again to cross over to downtown. That’s where the MTA made their fortune I bet.
I made it to the session, Bill was inside talking to Phillip. About Bill’s nervous stomach. As in ‘I am Bill’s Stomach’. I sat and listened as time passed. Better time, than gas I suppose. We eventually started talking about issues that we are there to talk about. Sex mainly. It’s the sticking point so to speak. I won’t get into detail but Philip suggested we talk about these things out of session. I agreed and brought up the subject when we settled in at home. Bill sat there, uploaded a program on his computer and eventually went to bed, without saying one word.