No Bob Saget, I will not make out with you…
Oh, all right. Don’t make a scene!
So I’m at The Waverly Inn with a snifter of brandy, revising my latest literary work and I’m thinking to myself: Self—this is living, this is New York and this is what it’s like to be fabulous and wearing the right shoes and being vibrant and sceney and colorful and above average—wait, scratch that, Self—you better be kidding or else the next round will be a LAX stick across the shins…
So I’m at The Waverly Inn, gulping down my second glass of expensive Pinot because I’m meeting my writing teacher who is clearly way hipper than I am because this is her chosen venue and I’m trying to look like I belong when a socialite who I’m sure I’m supposed to know but I don’t because I can’t ever keep up with that stuff spills her Kettel One all over my knee (did you know they refuse to serve Grey Goose there? Yes, yes, they know who your father is and no, they still won’t serve it to you, you pompous jerk—the bartenders are really affable guys and one looks just like Bill Nighy in tight jeans and frankly, I kind of fell in love with them the moment they said they had one beer for sale and that was it). So here I go—hey, it’s okay, don’t worry about it, no it’s totally fine, and she looks concerned so I think maybe she’s going to pay for the cleaning bill or toss a diamond my way—helping the plebeians and all—but I doth protest too much or something so she pattered off in flats and I was back to my wine and no one to talk to. Dang.
Enter my teacher and then some married guy who insists on shots of Patrone at 7:30 PM.
Dude, come on. I mean, do you see where we are right now? Don’t be a fool! It’s Jager and Bud Lights or nothing. (Zing! I got a million of ‘em.)
So he’s married, but that doesn’t stop him from touching her thighs and my butt and we’re a tad uncomfortable because the guy is really nice (okay he was buying us drinks—zing! What did I tell you about having a million jokes?), but no, he actually is pretty nice, but he’s getting handsy and we need fries so we order them and we look around and who do we see but Mr. Bob Saget negotiating a table in the front?
So I go up to him and the host tells him that his table’s first and I kind of throw my elbow out and I go And my table is last! Hey-o! and Bob’s actually really nice and talks to me for a hot second before I run off so that I can end the story without ruining it.
Another guy next to us at the bar keeps offering us artichoke and chicken and it’s pretty fantastic (I know the place got a so-so review, and maybe it was the ambiance and all the pretty people and Patrone, but I really thought the food was good and the staff was extremely helpful and friendly and all in all I think the man's Midas touch brought a really great slice of old literary elite back in style and I’m thankful for it).
So I go to the bathroom and I’m digging the dancing zebra wallpaper and I wonder if I can bring back the phrase “digging” and I come out and Russell Simmons and I have a brief, but intense staring contest (he won) and I go back to my teacher and I go—holy crap, Russell Simmons is here! And she’s not impressed because she saw him last week, but the guy next to us wants to do more shots and we sort of look at each other, having talked about none of the things we said we were going to, namely cleaning up the first few chapters of my novel so that it can be sent out and someone might be fooled into thinking it's halfway decent, and we kind of have this unspoken thing like we can leave right now with the illusion of dignity or not, so we leave and we talk to some guys in a black Suburban staking out the place, presumably for Page Six, and I hand her what’s there of my novel and beg her to read it and I kind of hope out loud that she cuts me a break on her fees because even though the guy who started the soap opera Passions bought our last house and insisted that my dad install a dog elevator, we live in a much smaller house now, I mean it's not the 90s anymore is it, and I don't make much money and my parents don't hand out much either and I go home thinking, wow, I kind of got away with being there tonight, and almost fit in and it kind of felt pretty great…now if only I could learn to quit while I’m ahead…
An old exercise revisited...but does stream of city consciousness suit my style?
Oh, all right. Don’t make a scene!
So I’m at The Waverly Inn with a snifter of brandy, revising my latest literary work and I’m thinking to myself: Self—this is living, this is New York and this is what it’s like to be fabulous and wearing the right shoes and being vibrant and sceney and colorful and above average—wait, scratch that, Self—you better be kidding or else the next round will be a LAX stick across the shins…
So I’m at The Waverly Inn, gulping down my second glass of expensive Pinot because I’m meeting my writing teacher who is clearly way hipper than I am because this is her chosen venue and I’m trying to look like I belong when a socialite who I’m sure I’m supposed to know but I don’t because I can’t ever keep up with that stuff spills her Kettel One all over my knee (did you know they refuse to serve Grey Goose there? Yes, yes, they know who your father is and no, they still won’t serve it to you, you pompous jerk—the bartenders are really affable guys and one looks just like Bill Nighy in tight jeans and frankly, I kind of fell in love with them the moment they said they had one beer for sale and that was it). So here I go—hey, it’s okay, don’t worry about it, no it’s totally fine, and she looks concerned so I think maybe she’s going to pay for the cleaning bill or toss a diamond my way—helping the plebeians and all—but I doth protest too much or something so she pattered off in flats and I was back to my wine and no one to talk to. Dang.
Enter my teacher and then some married guy who insists on shots of Patrone at 7:30 PM.
Dude, come on. I mean, do you see where we are right now? Don’t be a fool! It’s Jager and Bud Lights or nothing. (Zing! I got a million of ‘em.)
So he’s married, but that doesn’t stop him from touching her thighs and my butt and we’re a tad uncomfortable because the guy is really nice (okay he was buying us drinks—zing! What did I tell you about having a million jokes?), but no, he actually is pretty nice, but he’s getting handsy and we need fries so we order them and we look around and who do we see but Mr. Bob Saget negotiating a table in the front?
So I go up to him and the host tells him that his table’s first and I kind of throw my elbow out and I go And my table is last! Hey-o! and Bob’s actually really nice and talks to me for a hot second before I run off so that I can end the story without ruining it.
Another guy next to us at the bar keeps offering us artichoke and chicken and it’s pretty fantastic (I know the place got a so-so review, and maybe it was the ambiance and all the pretty people and Patrone, but I really thought the food was good and the staff was extremely helpful and friendly and all in all I think the man's Midas touch brought a really great slice of old literary elite back in style and I’m thankful for it).
So I go to the bathroom and I’m digging the dancing zebra wallpaper and I wonder if I can bring back the phrase “digging” and I come out and Russell Simmons and I have a brief, but intense staring contest (he won) and I go back to my teacher and I go—holy crap, Russell Simmons is here! And she’s not impressed because she saw him last week, but the guy next to us wants to do more shots and we sort of look at each other, having talked about none of the things we said we were going to, namely cleaning up the first few chapters of my novel so that it can be sent out and someone might be fooled into thinking it's halfway decent, and we kind of have this unspoken thing like we can leave right now with the illusion of dignity or not, so we leave and we talk to some guys in a black Suburban staking out the place, presumably for Page Six, and I hand her what’s there of my novel and beg her to read it and I kind of hope out loud that she cuts me a break on her fees because even though the guy who started the soap opera Passions bought our last house and insisted that my dad install a dog elevator, we live in a much smaller house now, I mean it's not the 90s anymore is it, and I don't make much money and my parents don't hand out much either and I go home thinking, wow, I kind of got away with being there tonight, and almost fit in and it kind of felt pretty great…now if only I could learn to quit while I’m ahead…
An old exercise revisited...but does stream of city consciousness suit my style?
8 comments:
Story of My Life Style--this is really fun.
I like the updated version of Alison Poole.
PS. Good luck with the novel.
Liking your style :)
Peej
x
i like it.
I was really hoping to hear your teacher's thoughts on the novel. Is Russell Simmons really that important?
*smiles* The first thought to enter my mind after taking that all in was simply... wow.
Your writing style brings a smile to my lips. It's as if I'm having a conversation with a close friend and she's telling me a story she's so excited about that she just kind of gets it all out as fast as she can. Yet it's warm and inviting.
So... wow.
Hm. I actually like you a bit more organized. The breeziness that I really enjoy in your writing requires careful timing to be effective. It's always good to try new things, though, and what better place than the blog?
I loved this Gorgeous K. You totally skimped on the details when I saw you this weekend. xo SB
Love it.
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