I just realized that the title of this post sounds worryingly like the title a transgressive porn film. Apologies for that.
It's about twenty-seven hours after that last post, and both Oliver and I are still hanging in there. Because there might be a beneficent deity after all, it actually warmed up yesterday afternoon, and O. and myself were actually afforded the opportunity to go outside, be productive, stroll around different neighborhoods and get some errands done. While in the entirely lamentable-but-convenient Babies 'R' Us on Union Square, we ran into John S. Hall, erstwhile lead singer/monologist with local snark-laden indie-rock-turned-novelty act from the 1990's, King Missile. He seemed as genuinely surprised (and maybe even a little alarmed) to be recognized in the diaper aisles as I was to be seeing him there (sporting his own little offspring in a Baby Bjorn). I was going to engage him in a discussion and remind him of how I interviewed him back in 1992, after the release of Happy Hour and how he spent the entire interview bitching about his record company and complaining about a chest cold (he autographed my copy of Mystical Shit with the inscription, "Don't Worry, I'm not Contagious"), but he looked at me as if I was wielding a pin-less hand grenade, so I just said "I'm a fan, congrats!" and left it at that.
That was about as exciting as our day got, honestly. There was a minor "laundry emergency," courtesy of little Oliver's unpredictable digestive system, but I'll spare you the details on that. Unfortunately, possibly as a result of that, Oliver could not be persuaded to fall asleep until quite late in the evening (causing much frustration for both of us). He eventually settled down around 11:30 pm, leaving me entirely spent myself. I'd been trying to enjoy Jim Jarmusch's excellent "Dead Man" (I never tire of watching this film) over the course of a few beers, but I figured I might as well throw in the towel myself. I hit the sack just before midnight, fully expecting Oliver to be up again shortly.
Mercifully, my little lad did not wake until 6:15 (still wicked early, mind you, but better than expected all the same). Despite sombre warnings from the news media about an impending winter storm (which we were supposed to get yesterday), the morning weather was fine enough for us to go outside again. There is the nagging fear that this purported storm will complicate matters for my wife's travel plans (which, quite frankly, would suck for everyone concerned). She and Charlotte are due to land this evening at 10 p.m. (right when the snow is hitting). Hopefully, there won't be any delays. I meanwhile, will be working from home this evening, orchestrating coverage of the Oscars for the Job, and hoping little Oliver doesn't keep waking up again.
Even as I type this, however, the skies outside are turning a malevolently opaque white. Up yours, Old Man Winter.
Recent Comments