counting backwards

Milk of Magnesia

I think I fell asleep on the ferry. At the very least, I was in that semi-lucid state between sleeping and waking. I was keenly sensitive to the lapping tide of the New York Bay, and the couple $4 whiskey shot/Genesee beer combos I had at International Bar toward the end of the night were splashing around uncomfortably in unison with the water. I thought I was going to hurl.

Once the boat docked, I zombie-walked through the terminal and up the ramp to the bus. The S51 is the most direct route; and thanks to the usual bus driver, it’s lightning fast. At 4 a.m., the usual driver is a man, seemingly 35-40, with a barbell piercing in his right eyebrow. He gets the hybrid bus moving, too. The bus doesn’t stop, as much as it pauses at each stop as we rocket down Bay Street. Red lights are merely suggestions.

But last night, the driver was different: a matronly woman. She drove at a careful speed and came to gentle, courteous stops. Most remarkably, she announced upcoming stops over the loudspeaker with a cheerful voice. When it came to my stop, she asked me, “Is here good, or do you want me to move up?” As if she knew where I lived. “As far up as you can go,” I said, and she took me all the way up to the corner. I thanked her, and so did my stomach.

Polk 3

The people I work with at the polling place are becoming extended family. They’re people who are familiar, and whose company I enjoy, and I only see them about once or twice a year—on the major holidays. I catch up with my real family in late December and my election family on the first Tuesday in November. They’re actually the first people I wish a happy holidays. Just like family, I’m involved in their squabbles.

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The River Styx

I have a ferry wait time limit: never more than a half-hour. In the salad days before the end of summer, I’d hop off the N at Rector Street and belly up to the bar at Ulysses for a drink or two to kill time before the next boat. Nowadays, If I have to wait an hour for the boat to dock at Whitehall, I’ll just continue into Brooklyn and transfer to the S53 at 86th Street.

This is the dreariest of trips, especially in the wee hours. I have to transfer to the R at 59th Street in Brooklyn, and there’s no telling how long it’ll take for the R, relegated to meager Bay Ridge shuttle status at that time of night, to show up. The only bright spot is that the delis on 86th are still open, and they make a mean sandwich.

Last night, the N had dropped me off with 35 minutes to spare. This time, open air won out over a late night trolling the tunnels. I walked upstairs to sit on the patio behind the neon Staten Island Ferry sign. I like to watch the ferry come in at night. It seems to emerge out of nowhere when it swings around Governor’s Island. I opened the side doors of the terminal and saw a couple sitting on a bench—a man and a woman. I thought the man looked like Lou Reed from behind. When I took my seat on the neighboring bench, I realized the man was David Johansen from the New York Dolls.

Coming up on 3:30 a.m., Lower Manhattan was even quieter than usual, but I couldn’t make out their conversation. (I’m a chronic eavesdropper. I’m not as ashamed of it as I should be.) The lady had long black hair and a nice laugh, which she flashed often during their dialogue. Thought I couldn’t make out what he was saying, Johansen’s voice had a vampiric tone—dark and hollow. Between drags of his cigarette, the only word that rang clear was “fascists.”

I entered the ferry alongside them. As soon as I got on the boat, I turned on the ramp and headed downstairs so I could stand outside. When I did so, I was facing Johansen and his lady. She was smiling as she propped him up; he wore amber sunglasses and had the pallor of the walking dead.

Russian Archive at Alice Austen House

Please join us for a sunset garden party to celebrate Russian Archive by Donald Weber at the Alice Austen House Museum.

Saturday Sept. 26 from 4:00-8:00 p.m.

Refreshments by the Bubble Lounge NYC.

Bring a picnic, a blanket, sit by the water, and enjoy one of the last few days to relax outside.

I liked what I saw of Weber’s work online. I’m really looking forward to this.

Muggle Me This

Sunday night I figured I’d go see the new Harry Potter movie. I’m getting increasingly hooked on these films. I loved The Half Blood Prince—almost as much as the new Star Trek. It’s getting to the point where I might have to start reading the books. I just hope it doesn’t come to that.

I went by myself around 11:30 p.m. If I’m going to a movie by myself, I try to pick the latest show possible. When I approached the ticket kiosk, I said, “One for Harry Potter, please.” And the young lady behind the bulletproof glass said, “Just one?”

It wasn’t what she said, but how she said it. Just one. Those two words were heavily weighted. They were almost an indictment. Just one. As if it were strange for a 32-year-old man, unshaven and balding, to want a ticket to see a movie about teenage wizards without first being coerced by a child, younger sibling or significant other. I just love magic, lady. I even used to play the card game.

Cease Fire

When I was young, my street sounded like a war zone on Independence Day. The kids down the block would set off a 4,000-shot bandolier of Thunder Bombs just after breakfast, followed by a barrage of Blockbusters, M80s and whatever else packed sizeable boom.

By evening, the entire street was abuzz with everything from whistling bottle rockets to pro-style mortars that set off showers of colorful sparks deep in the night sky. It’s early, but right now, all I hear are chirping birds and a few passing cars. That’s fine by me. I may even get out of bed eventually.

Megatron ain't nothing to fuck with.

The best part about the Transformers sequel wasn’t the awesome CGI (drool-worthy) or Megan Fox’s bum (boner-worthy, and a close second), it was the crowd I went to see it with, which was seriously hood.

I opted for the 1 a.m. show, because I couldn’t believe a movie theater would show a two and a half hour movie at 1 a.m. Also, everyone I knew in a 2,800 mile radius had already gone to see it without me. I know, because I’d read their Facebooks. After a long day of working on the magazine, I was the only one in the theater sober, which was fine by me because I hadn’t showered and hadn’t bothered to change my boxers from the day before. I was ripe, and ready for Optimus.

Two rows back were a group of guys who weren’t shy about sharing comments with the rest of the audience. For the most part, it didn’t matter, because they weren’t being dicks about it, kept their comments short and movie-related and Transformers: Rise of the Fallen was so fucking loud they would’ve needed a megaphone to break through the din. During the G.I. Joe trailer, one said, “Yo, we gotta go see that too, dawg.” Later, as Ms. Fox straddled a bicycle in short shorts and quick changed from sexy biker chick into sexy white-dress chick, the group chimed in with a chorus of “Shit, son”s and “daaamn”s.

The best line was when Megatron was resuscitated from his watery tomb. He rocketed up from a deep ocean trench and completely pwned a submarine as he blasted into space. It was pretty bad ass, and a harbinger of bad news for our friendly neighborhood Autobots. One of the guys behind me was obviously concerned.

“Yo, that nigga’s a problem,” he said.