Thursday, March 21, 2013

I was sitting with J.D., complaining about a redesign of the Y website. It was impossible to sign in—the user name and password section were non-functional, as though they were placeholders. I felt myself getting angry at J.C. about this, and as I was starting to say so to J.D., I suddenly noticed that he was sitting in a chair between us. I tempered my comments, not wanting to offend him, but I still said something like, “This is really fucked up.”

Thursday, March 07, 2013

The Super Bowl had just taken place and there was that Monday-after-it feeling around town. People were talking about how the winning quarterback—I think it was Tom Brady—had done or said something regarding Nike. The events of the game had perhaps become mixed up with the ads somehow.

I was running to catch an MTA bus, except that it wasn’t New York City, it was more like Paris. The bus came at the top of a hill and went down toward a river, like the Left Bank goes down toward the Seine. As I rode it I realized I was hungry, and could eat anywhere I liked; I wondered where I could find great food; probably not along the big boulevards, I thought, but more likely in the side streets somewhere.

My bags were in the aisle. Three waiters who worked for the bus in some capacity got up and walked to the front, stepping over or around the obstacles. They leaned out the bus door and picked up glasses and bottles from tables on the street outside, and did so with acrobatic flair, like those showoff bartenders. Then I was sitting at a table with the waiters, and Jake and Kevin were there, and we talked to them about having gone to school in London back when there were riots in the streets.