Forget It, Charlie. It’s Brewerytown.

September 21st, 2006

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Sorry ‘bout the delay, good buddy. And believe you me (VSO!), it’s nothing personal; I’ve just been busy this week and I’m wishing I had more time in the day. As a corollary to being busy, nothing terribly interesting has happened… well, except for that one thing…

So I’m riding The GS home from work and it’s late, like I’m talking single digits late. The moon kisses the horizon on the East River, hypnotizing me as I speed over the Manhattan Bridge. I round the bend to come back under the bridge onto Jay Street when I see three men in navy blue trench coats taking their boots to a fourth lying fetal on the ground. They all stop and turn when I aggressively skid up to their party, spraying loose gravel on their necks. With only knowing looks exchanged they advance slowly, comic book-ly, cracking knuckles, grinning. The tenderized rube hightails it and I know my job is done.

I woke up in the hospital surrounded by lilacs and orchids. Turns out the rube comes from green genes, his pops - Frank Graham - owns the hydroelectric plant down by the sound. The tough-guys work for Sammy Mendario, the sleazy “just get it done, no matter how? guy who’s in bed with Feingold, the Mayor’s main threat this November. Feingold wanted to send a message: this town’s going windmills. I thought my job was done, but I know it’s not. I’m already too deep. This isn’t fucking Holland, it’s New York.

Oh yeah, I also met someone who works at Jim Henson Studios and she’s gonna show me around and I can take my picture with muppets as long as they’re fully assembled. Apparently there is a policy against the public seeing fictional characters dismembered… which I completely understand.


P.S.  Don’t ever think twice about our friendship, C.