It’s a Tuesday and it feels like a Wednesday. 48° in Hoboken. I like posting the temperature since I get to use the ALT 0176 code for the °. Bill is on the road, Mike is asleep. L’Orange Merde prattles on but I ain’t watching. Couldn’t be arsed.

My mind wanders. I am watching St. Vincent, a film starring Bill Murray, Melissa McCarthy, and Naomi Watts, and looking up info on Wikipedia. I donate $!.50 a month to Wikipedia since I use it daily.

Part of St. Vincent was filmed at the Belmont Racetrack and my mind went back to 30 years ago. A friend from back then was looking to go to Belmont and asked me where it was. Being a music guy I thought it was in the Bronx since Dion and the Belmonts were from the Bronx, so to me it made sense.

It turns out that the Belmont Racetrack is in Elmont, Long Island. I’ve never been obviously and it’s unlikely that I will ever go there. I’ve only been to one racetrack and that was 50 years ago, the Meadowlands.

I went with my brother Brian who was playing the Carole King Tapestry album which to my ears, I did not appreciate it at the time. The song I mainly remember was Smackwater Jack. I met Carole King once in the nineties at Right Track Recording.

She was visiting James Taylor who recorded at Right Track frequently, probably because he was being produced by the affable, cigar smoking Frank Filapetti who was friends with the owner, Simon Eric Andrews.

Carole was pleasant enough to chat with. I mentioned that I had seen her daughter Louise Goffin the night before playing at Fez under Time Cafe with the Loser’s Lounge, so she might have been surprised to be talking about her daughter like a proud mother.

Frank Filapetti was inadvertently an influence on my cigar smoking. I would have to go to a cigar shop and purchase some cigars for Frank and in so doing, I was introduced to the world of premium cigars, eventually buying one of my own.

It was around that time, I remember, buying a Henry Clay cigar and smoking it on my way to improv class, walking through Central Park. I won a contest from Time Out magazine for a season of improv classes with Chicago City Limits on First Avenue.

There were probably two dozen classmates the first week. I would be early and out on the sidewalk out front being funny, having some of my classmates in stitches before class. But I could not be funny in class and kept breaking the number one improv rule of ‘Not saying No’. If you say no the improv skit stops. Or so they said, the flow is discontinued.

On the sidewalk, I was funny. On the stage, I was not. I didn’t really respect the improv teacher either. Tonight’s word was ‘engaging’ in Hoboken and the improv teacher was lacking in engagement. The initial class had about 24 students, the next week 19, then 15. It may have gone to single digits.

These classes weren’t cheap so I don’t know if the classmates dropping out lost money or had a deal. I won a contest and so leaving after about a month was no skin off my back.

What is going on, on a Thursday night in Hoboken with a 51° temperature? Not much. The Rastas I used to hang out with back in the day would say I was looking Asian, specifically Chinese, if you get my non-racist racist statement.

I had an interview this morning and I think it went well. The interviewer sat me in their office and instead of reviewing my resume, proceeded to tell me all the tasks I would be doing if I got hired. I was charming of course. And the tasks were nothing I hadn’t done before, and quite well I might add.

The whole thing took a little over 30 minutes, with another 15-minute tour of the area where I would be working. If I got hired. And the phone interview that was going to be rescheduled was rescheduled, and the brush-off from the same company regarding a different position was made official with an email.

I sort of had to force the hand of this phone interviewer reminding them of my reply two days ago that I was still interested in the position that was offered. They sent another invite and I picked 9:00 AM, figuring that I had gotten up at 8:00 AM for today’s in-person interview, then I could get up at 8 AM again for a 9:00 call. Coffee will be ingested as well as a shower if there is time.

So many plates in the air!

It’s been a good day I think. It’s not over yet though. Bill is off to bed soon, then the phone call with Mike. That’s the routine lately. ‘It works nicely and everyone benefits’ he wrote sensing a foreboding that faded quickly as foreboding sometimes does.

The Rastas were right 35 years ago. I do not have to look in the mirror to check, them eyelids be heavy. Julio would have had a laugh at that himself back in the day, while he looked like a resident of Saipan.

The interview was in an area I worked, for the Algerians. After the interview, I strolled the old haunts and found most of them were gone. The store where I hoped to get a cigar was no longer selling cigars.

The super-deli I would get an egg sandwich was now a furniture showroom. The two floors at 360 Park Avenue South were vacant, the Algerians having left a few years ago. Restaurants had changed names and menus.

I didn’t meander too much since it was raining a bit. Took the PATH train back home. The station was shut down for a makeover for almost a month and only had just reopened two days ago. It is brighter and somewhat cleaner.

The new staircases were nice too since the old ones were quite old and probably about 100 years old. One platform was finished and the other was covered in plywood. Maybe they’re both finished and one platform is an art installation. Yeah, that’s more like it.