About 8:45, a gentleman in a New York Dolls t-shirt under an unbuttoned button-up came in and sat next to me. "You Chris?"
Ammoniacal introduced him self by real-world name and I gave him mine. He explained that the plan had gone south on us at the last second. No other attendees were expected and calla had sitter issues and had brought along her wee one. Since Verlaine's was not exactly family-friendly, he suggested a diner or something as an alternative.
Calla picked us up and we all drove across the Manhattan Bridge in Brooklyn. Ended up at Junior's for deserts and whatnot.
This was my first encounter with any Internet connections in real-space. I was concerned that we wouldn't have anything to talk about, but I thought the conversation flowed fairly smoothly and easily. Both ammoniacal and calla are good peoples, calla's little one is charming (we were pushing his bedtime and he was clearly tired; however, this manifested itself in his quietly and intently amusing himself with Teen Titan action figures and not in any tantrum-throwing or anything like that).
I'm afraid I was not very impressive. I always fear that people who like CRwM are going to be disenchanted with flesh and blood version of the same. Still, if they were disappointed, they were gracious enough to never show even the slightest hint of it and I felt like my company was enjoyed.
Hopefully, I'll get the chance to see them again.
Saturday, started and finished reading "Outlet," a weird little book from Randy Taguchi. The plot involves a woman who, undergoing soul searching following the starvation of death of her mentally ill brother, finds out that her vagina is magical. I'm not kidding. That's the plot.
I don't want to recommend it; but I am, if only on the strength of its plot which is delivered without irony and with a completely straight face. Think of it as a sort of mix of "The Ring," a trendy memoir about the ambivalent feelings accompanying the loss of a particularly troublesome family member, and the content on the website "Naughty Office."
Not since I followed the tragic-comic tale of Mrs. Lonely-Heart the Alligator-Girl in "Species" has somebody so entertained me with such an unintentionally funny story about modern love.
Sunday, went to the Yankee's game for Loren's birthday. Bit of an endurance test; we were in bleacher seats and the sun was roasting us the whole damn game. Furthermore, no beer for the bleacher folks. Presumably, the bleacher underclass is dangerous enough without providing them over priced alcoholic libations. Still, there is a weird pride bleacher regulars take in sitting in the cheapest, worst seats in the house. I noticed several team-style jerseys that, instead if displaying a player name and number, were emblazoned with "Section 39" or "Section 41." The bleacher-regulars also managed on several occasions to organize a chant of "Box seats suck." This is as close as the working classes of New Yorker get to open class warfare.
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