"Wanna check out the garden?" a guy with a beard and spiked hair held a menu up in the air and smiled. He looked like a friend of mine I hadn't seen (or kissed) in a while, so I followed him.
It is easily 90 degrees on a Sunday morning, and I'm at Green & Franklin. Inside Anella's. Brooklyn Label has reinvented itself as a funky French place, but I just had a Pate Slider (!!!) there for Happy Hour a few nights ago. Naked Dog has decided not to do lunch or brunch for August. I keep checking on the restaurant across the street which seems cute but never seems to be open (at least not when I want to eat).
I like the breeze from the river, but after a few blocks, the sun is mean.
All I want is Air Conditioning.
Greenpoint Reformed Church (Milton & Manhattan) has Black Lives Matter, a rainbow flag, a bouncy house and a Tiny Library. They also had a service at 11, which is always followed by some event. Since I didn't feel like pushing the kids out of the bouncy way, I wandered off for caffeine, alcohol and eggs. It's a five block meander and I'm ready to sit at the 6 top in the front window.
But I walk through the darkness, feeling the fans and I see the bright yellow corrugated steel wall. I'm reading Bright Shiny Morning by James Frey (I know, A million Little Frey Lies, etc) It's a book about LA, and this "garden" could be a place in West Hollywood. I'm undecided about his first book and will go through my life not reading it, but I like the idea of hanging out inside this current book. I like these people and I like to imagine that Venice Beach is just beyond the wall.
Abba sings to take a chance on them. And a few minutes later, there is a very soulful rendition of some pop hit, much better than the familiar version. Don't walk on by, just let me grieve.
There are 2 girls under a table umbrella, one with an artificial eyelash line. The church readings ended the long & dreary book of Job today. (I don't blame the pastors for ducking out on this one) Job named his new daughters, Dove, Cinnamon and Eyeshadow. Is he on fleek or what?
There is a couple next to me, living together, probably together, discussing something. I catch that something was said casually and that this conversation is spent exploring the boundaries of where offense might have been taken. 1 sentence and 10 minutes of graceful and sensitive backpedaling. My kinda people.
2 tiny sparrows steal a romantic moment at a nearby table; one sitting on a raw sugar bowl and feeding crystals to the other. The other flaps his/her wings for more. Mating or baby bird behavior, I'm not sure. And what happens to tiny birds on a sugar high? Its slightly gross, but hey, pizza rat wasn't this sweet. And we all gotta eat.
I get a Peach Bellini in a breast-shaped champagne glass. And a coffee in a giant cup. My kinda people.
The girl of the couple turns to me and asks about the book, just as I get my food. I'm not terribly hungry (and not paying attention). I get into a whole discussion with them about the thin line between him and truth and Mike Daisey on This American Life and how Christine Amanpor says she "doesn't strive to be neutral, she strives for the truth" (It takes me a minute to realize where I know that name from. She a famous journalist--by way of Gilmor Girls) And how nothng in the world is objective truth. And how it is great to find books on stoops and pass them along to other people.
We exchange emails and I agree to meet her (and I suspect I will) to hand off the book, in exchange for her handing me something that she's read. (I'm a sucker for ANY new books).
They leave and I turn to my AMAZING plate of Avocado Toast. This plate is at LEAST 75% covered in avocado (mixed with garlic and lime and onions in exactly the right proportions). It looks like 10 died for me to be this kind of blissful (okay, at least 3). Also 2 eggs and toast underneath somewhere.
I put down my interesting book. There is a sex scene between 2 people that everyone has been rooting for, and the author interrupts it in a stereotypical and mean way. He is not better than avocados.
On my way home, I wander into the Second Hand Store that keeps dusty books along its shelves. I find 9 AMAZING books I have always wanted my entire life. I pay $50 for 9 of them.
I put aside the stoop book and start spending some time inside another book, the author of which claims to take me Walking With Greta Garbo.
I prefer to be alone. With my avocados.
