Last night I did get the sleep I required. It was a good night’s sleep for about 7 hours or so and I woke up refreshed with nary any dread.
Jimmy Chile is out today. He texted me last night and he was upset about Ozzy Osbourne’s passing. I worked with Ozzy in the ’90s and the man was toast. He could barely formulate a sentence but if you put him in front of a microphone he was on. I can’t say I was much of a fan of Black Sabbath or Ozzy Osbourne although quite a few of my friends were and there was even a Black Sabbath song on the jukebox back in the day at 1039 Washington Street which to my surprise had a few of my friends singing along to.
Mike is somewhere around Penn Plaza interviewing for a job at Madison Square Garden and he so desperately needs the job that he should take whatever job is offered to him as soon as the words leave the interviewer’s mouth.
I will be working in that neighborhood next Wednesday and I am not looking forward to it since I do enjoy working where I am at now. But a price must be paid for the freedom that I have so it’s a relative, meager amount to pay.
I did hear from Mike earlier as he was getting off the Path train headed over to Madison Square Garden but he did not exactly know where it was. He has limited resources whereas I have a little bit more than he has so I do the research before I have to go somewhere and that is because I have more resources than he does.
Bill was up when I left and gave me the hug. He did not sleep well last night so maybe we’re trading off good nights of sleep versus bad nights of sleep. I certainly hope that is not the case.
I’m coming up on the first anniversary of restarting this here blog.
The only people I mentioned it to were Rand and Lisa and that was in October and I don’t think they said anything to anyone. I do recall in November mentioning the podcast idea while waiting to see the Luther Vandross documentary to Rand who never responded to the initial response. So very Rand.
This is an awkward day though not by my hand or by my doing…Jimmy Chile is out today and he’s usually a good buffer between me and Marcus so there’s no buffer between me and Marcus.
It is yet another beautiful day. I did my shuffle around Union Square, picked up a piece of chocolate bread and now I sit and smoke my mini cigar.
Bill just sent a text from his dentist office where they removed a tooth and he’s numb in half of his face and his eye. It is an experience that I have had a few times and now look at me with nothing but prosthetics except for five teeth.
Mike is coming over today to spend the night to prepare for a Zoom call interview that he has tomorrow. He has a lead on a very decent job, and he has to get past their background check, but that will be that. If they do, it’s for an immediate hire, and he needs to be hired immediately
I am sure I’ll find out more when I meet him by the park on the river, Pier A.
I do love these mini cigars, but they tend to fall apart with the slightest look. I need to find a better mini cigar.
Hey Gemini, rewrite like an essay by Allan Stewart Konigsberg
Ah, sleep. That elusive, fickle mistress. Last night, against all odds, she was kind to me. Seven hours, maybe a little more, of blissful oblivion. I woke up refreshed, a rare sensation, with barely a whisper of the usual existential dread. A minor miracle, really.
Jimmy Chile, my usual buffer against the harsh realities of the world (and Marcus), is out today. He texted me last night, quite despondent, about **Ozzy Osbourne’s passing**. Now, I worked with Ozzy back in the nineties. And let me tell you, the man was toast. He could barely string a coherent sentence together. But put him in front of a microphone? Boom. Instant rock star. It was uncanny. Me, I was never much of a fan of **Black Sabbath** or Ozzy. Though, strangely, a surprising number of my friends were. I remember a Black Sabbath song on the jukebox at 1039 Washington Street – a place that, despite its dive-bar charm, occasionally hosted impromptu singalongs to songs about iron men. It was… disorienting.
—
Meanwhile, Mike is somewhere in the labyrinthine vicinity of **Penn Plaza**, enduring an interview for a job at **Madison Square Garden**. He needs this job, desperately. So desperately, in fact, that I’ve advised him to simply accept whatever offer materializes the moment the words leave the interviewer’s lips. Don’t even let them finish the sentence. Just nod vigorously.
Next Wednesday, I’ll be working in that very neighborhood. And I’m not exactly thrilled. I’ve grown rather fond of my current perch, a cozy little corner of the universe where I’m mostly left alone. But, you know, freedom comes at a price. And this, I suppose, is a relatively meager amount to pay for the illusion of control over my own schedule.
I did hear from Mike earlier. He was just disembarking from the **Path train**, heading towards Madison Square Garden, though he confessed to being a bit adrift. He’s a bit… resource-limited, bless his heart. Me, I’m a planner. I do my research. I know exactly where I’m going before I leave the apartment. It’s a subtle difference, but it spares one a good deal of aimless wandering and existential angst.
—
Bill was awake when I left this morning. He even gave me a hug. A rare display of affection, though I suspect it was less about warmth and more about his own abysmal night’s sleep. He was a wreck. Perhaps we’re trading off, like some cosmic balance sheet of rest and torment. One good night for me, one bad night for him. I sincerely hope that’s not the case. The thought alone could keep me up for a week.
I’m also approaching the first anniversary of restarting this… *blog*, as the kids call it. I only mentioned it to **Rand** and **Lisa**, back in October. And I’m fairly certain they haven’t blabbed to anyone. Rand, especially. I vaguely recall pitching him the idea of a podcast in November, while we were waiting to see that **Luther Vandross** documentary. He never responded. Typical Rand. He’s a master of the non-response. A Zen master of conversational silence.
—
Today feels… awkward. Not by my doing, mind you. Just the universe conspiring against my carefully constructed routines. With Jimmy Chile out, there’s no buffer between me and **Marcus**. Marcus, who, despite his best intentions, has a way of… penetrating my personal space with his well-meaning but utterly draining pronouncements. It’s like being trapped in a small room with a very earnest, very loud, motivational speaker.
It’s another beautiful day, though. The kind that feels almost insulting when you’re wrestling with the vagaries of human interaction. I did my usual shuffle around **Union Square**, procured a piece of **chocolate bread** (a small indulgence, a minor rebellion against the anxieties of the day), and now I sit, contemplating the fleeting existence of my mini cigar.
Speaking of which, Bill just texted. From the dentist. They removed a tooth. Half his face is numb, he says. Even his eye. An experience I know all too well. I’m practically a walking dental prosthesis at this point, save for five stubborn originals. The human body, it’s a temple, they say. Mine, I think, is more of a fixer-upper.
Mike’s coming over tonight. To spend the night, to prepare for a **Zoom call interview** tomorrow. He’s got a lead on a “very decent job.” Now he just needs to clear their background check. If he does, it’s an immediate hire. And he needs to be hired immediately, like a man adrift at sea spotting a life raft. I’m sure I’ll get the full, agonizing details when I meet him by the park on the river, **Pier A**.
These mini cigars, I do love them. But they’re so delicate. They fall apart at the slightest glance, the merest hint of judgment. I need to find a more resilient mini cigar. A sturdier companion for these bewildering days. A cigar that understands the fragility of existence, but doesn’t crumble at the thought of it.