To top it off, I'm wearing jeans. This is because, in my infinite, impulsive, no-foresight, space-seeking wisdom, at the beginning of last winter I gave all my shorts to charity, where they were auctioned off to raise money for global warming. Which is why I was in G-point to begin with — scouring the stores on Manhattan Ave. for something — anything! — that would offer relief.
Hey, I'm not even picky! Peddle pushers, skorts, clam diggers...even gauchos will do. I know the 'hood and I know we ain't got no Barneys. Most of the stores around there are like the less attractive older sister of this weird store:
Anyhoo, it was slim pickens as usual, so I grabbed a bunch of ill-fitting, mostly synthetic shorts and ran out to catch a bus to meet my friend Jean at the Richardson for a cocktail.
Yes! A cocktail! On a Thursday afternoon! Between that and my denim-like shorts, I was feeling like the less attractive older sister of Carrie Bradshaw.
On any given day, I have a constant stream of headlines running through my head. Largely thanks to a career in advertising, this inner voice goes into overdrive when I'm in distress, sending my frontal lobe into a frenzy of bad puns and half-baked concepts. A post-primitive response to working under constant, intense pressure for way too long, it's like a "fight or flight" thing (or sex, or picking your nose) — instinctive and uncontrollable. But unlike most involuntary reflexes, mine seems to serve no purpose except to save me from being consumed by a giant woolly creative director.
Today, thanks to the heat and lack of busses, this diarrhea-of-the-mouth-of-the-voice-inside-my-head is much worse. Rarely do I get the gift of a fully formed headline. Mostly it's just quotes from movies, TV shows, commercials. A few random taglines. All are fragmentary, and pretty bad. A kernel of something that goes nowhere, like this:
"Good taste is easy to recognize." (Like I said, random!)
"I like New York in June..." (Not sure where this is going, but definite ironic possibilities.)
"I'm mellllting, MELLLTINNNG!" (Yeah right, WofO is so played. And old!)
"We're not in Brooklyn anymore. [pause, cut to Brooklyn Decker in PSA spot] Because, thanks to global warming, you're in a micro-climate that is more like Hades than New York in June. Join me and Al Gore in an initiative to Bring June Back..."
(Where the frick is that frickin' bus?!)
VO in movie-trailer-voice: "In a world where nothing goes as planned..." [Visual: Woman with too many bags climbs onto the bus, sweaty, manic. Finally gets her metro card out, inserts it...] VO: "She took the last bus..." [Woman withdraws card, loud audio of the low beep of an expired card. She slowly looks up, and, sitting in the driver's seat in a freshly pressed MTA uniform, looking back at her with a disapproving stare, is Adam Sandler.] VO: "And he just happens to be...Crosstown Local."
So after half an hour, I give up and take the third B62, which will take me half-way to where I need to be. The driver is no Billy Madison, but I'll take it.
I get off at Driggs, hoofing it. Or trying to. My inner copywriter is shifting from madcap humor to adult drama. (I'm dancing as fast as I can.) ((Get me to The Rich before I start using a 1982 Jill Clayburgh vehicle about Valium addiction for new material!!!))
Finally, I arrive. There's cool air, people conversing and laughing. There's Jean, classy and composed in a cotton shirt and tailored shorts. (I should mention here that Jean is the taller, more beautiful and better dressed sister in the Bradshaw clan.)
On a day like today, what could be more appropriate than their new summer drink, the Diablo Verde:
Made from cucumber, fresh lemon juice, apertif wine and tequilo blanco, with a pinch of fresh cracked pepper on top, it's the right drink at the right time. And, like any good drink, it's the salve that heals my melted spirit.
You had me at "What can I get you?"
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