A Good Sunday
Monday will be a busy/good day around here, including another list of six books (if you haven't caught on, a new list is going up every Monday, and the "gallery" photos are being posted on Fridays). But a quick note now at the end of the weekend, inspired by a friend.
It's true that I do an awful lot of complaining about New York, both on the blog and to my three-dimensional friends. But it's also true that there are days like today. I woke up at a reasonable time (for me, on a Sunday, that means anytime before noon, but it was actually considerably earlier than that today) after having "gained" the hour last night. (I can't tell you how much the talk about gaining an hour agitates me. We didn't gain an hour. We just told ourselves it's a different time. I could say, "Hey, everyone, it's 1976 again!" but that wouldn't mean I'm going to live 31 years longer than I normally would.)
Where was I? I got up and walked less than one block to watch the marathon runners make their way through Brooklyn. (More on this tomorrow, but for now I'll just say it's a tremendous event.) I sat for a while at a charming local coffeehouse, ate my body weight in "blueberry buttermilk coffee cake," and continued reading a book that may or may not be changing my life, but probably is, as much as individual books can do that. (Much more on that book before long -- too much, really.) And tonight, after watching football at a friend's apartment, three of us decided at the last minute to see a comedy show at a bar less than one block away, featuring my buddy Eugene Mirman, the always-hysterical Todd Barry, and the desired-by-male-nerds-everywhere Sarah Silverman. We almost didn't go because the option of doing something like that presents itself so often here that it's hard to get enthused. But that's the point. I should sing this place's praises more often. If I left it, there would be some immediate sensory benefits and perhaps a (no doubt temporary) uptick in the Sanity Department, but it would hurt like hell.
It's true that I do an awful lot of complaining about New York, both on the blog and to my three-dimensional friends. But it's also true that there are days like today. I woke up at a reasonable time (for me, on a Sunday, that means anytime before noon, but it was actually considerably earlier than that today) after having "gained" the hour last night. (I can't tell you how much the talk about gaining an hour agitates me. We didn't gain an hour. We just told ourselves it's a different time. I could say, "Hey, everyone, it's 1976 again!" but that wouldn't mean I'm going to live 31 years longer than I normally would.)
Where was I? I got up and walked less than one block to watch the marathon runners make their way through Brooklyn. (More on this tomorrow, but for now I'll just say it's a tremendous event.) I sat for a while at a charming local coffeehouse, ate my body weight in "blueberry buttermilk coffee cake," and continued reading a book that may or may not be changing my life, but probably is, as much as individual books can do that. (Much more on that book before long -- too much, really.) And tonight, after watching football at a friend's apartment, three of us decided at the last minute to see a comedy show at a bar less than one block away, featuring my buddy Eugene Mirman, the always-hysterical Todd Barry, and the desired-by-male-nerds-everywhere Sarah Silverman. We almost didn't go because the option of doing something like that presents itself so often here that it's hard to get enthused. But that's the point. I should sing this place's praises more often. If I left it, there would be some immediate sensory benefits and perhaps a (no doubt temporary) uptick in the Sanity Department, but it would hurt like hell.
posted by JMW at 10:51 PM
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