Current
Filed
Dossier
Scribbles
Telegrams
Briefing
Patron

Sunday Morning
18 September 2005
4 10:29

"But I will miss my Sunday mornings, I will miss my Thursday nights," she wrote in a song no-one but me has heard in awhile (I have the only recording of the only time The Shivs have played that tune in its entirety in rehearsal; it's a bit rough, but it kinda rocks, so I'm lobbying to get it back into the setlist before the next gigs, which will be in October). I'm finally, after slightly more than a year in this city, having one of the sort of Sunday mornings about which I think she was writing.

This morning, for a change, I woke in my own bed and didn't have to rush to warm up the old pipes, get dressed, and get to Trinity by 10 a.m. So I lay in my very comfy bed, naked but for a sheet, for awhile, pondering the morning before I decided to take a nice leisurely shower, dress, start a pot of coffee and walk down to the bakery for a croissant. Upon returning, I poured myself a large cup of the coffee, took a hit off of last night's not-quite-cashed pipe, and took croissant, coffee, laptop, cigarette, and cell phone out onto the fire escape, where I'm currently sitting barefoot and listening to really not at all bad rehearsal recordings of the band.

I suppose this is what a New York City morning should be like in my mind. Though I'd prefer it were set in a different neighbourhood further downtown, sitting outside writing, enjoying the weather, the morning, and my coffee while watching the world go about its business constitutes just about the most ideal morning I can imagine at this moment. It is what I've wanted to do for quite some time.

It reminds me of all those mornings in London that summer when Jane and I were there together. She'd get up early in the morning and shower and dress while I was still sleeping -- well, she thought I was still sleeping; sometimes I'd watch her get dressed in the morning -- she WAS beautiful. And an hour or so after she'd headed off to work, I'd get out of bed, make some coffee, take a mug of it and a cigarette (they were all cloves at the time -- Djarums, mostly, that I'd bought in my brief stop-over in Virginia before running off to London to be with her) down through the ground floor and out into the stone sunken patio, where I'd sit and stare up at the gardens sourrounding us and write. Now, it's a second-floor fire-escape, and the coffee is Starbucks, and I look down at the people passing and the cars on Ft. Washington Ave. (Beamers & Benzes & Jags, oh, my! To be fair, there was, up until a few minutes ago, a ladybug-orange Volkswagen bug convertible with a black canvas top parked directly in front of me.) I was infinitely more at home in London than I am here, but this morning is one of those where I can sit here and whistle Sondheim's "What More Do I Need" and almost believe it, no matter how strange I may find it to see anyone walking the streets in this city wearing apparel emblazoned with "I [HEART] NY".

This afternoon will be dinner with James's father and his girlfriend, to which I'll bring a bottle of my newest discovery, Bulleit Bourbon, which I'm sure they'll enjoy. James had told me that his father and I would get along well, as we both appreciate intelligent humour, good alcohol and a nice cigar; he was quite right. I first tasted Bulleit this past Wednesday night at a bar in East Williamsburg, and it's quite yummy, though a bit difficult to find (I called a good handful of midtown Manhattan liquor stores before I found one, Columbus Circle Liquor Store, located at 1780 Broadway (the staff are quite friendly and helpful), that carried it ($29.95 + tax for a 750 ml bottle is about as cheap as it's gonna get around here, too). Open the bottle, which comes with a cork, rather than the usual plastic screw-top, and you immediately get the odour of a caramel apple that's just been baked. The taste isn't QUITE that sweet, though the whisky's high rye content (a nice thing, in my opinion) does give it a fair amount of sweetness, as well as a clean finish. It's less vanilla-y than Maker's Mark, which I also count as a good thing, having never quite loved that brand as much as many of my friends. I tend usually to like a rougher bourbon, having been a Wild Turkey fan for a number of years now, but perhaps my taste is maturing as I hurtle toward 30. I'll also be taking the Bulleit with me on retreat next weekend, so we'll see what the bourbon-drinkers among the Trinity crowd think of it there.

Ah, but why was I in East Williamsburg? I've gotten myself entangled in a side project of some of the members of The World/Inferno Friendship Society, which I cannot yet accurately describe. I was planning to go to their gig out in Sunset Park on Friday night, but I'm afraid I turned into a light-weight at and directly after dinner, and I was asleep before they would've played. I'm quite excited about this, though, as I very much enjoy everything I've heard from them thus far, and their lead-singer, Jack, in addition to being an almost frighteningly charming man, also has quite a good voice. Stay tuned...

Well, now that this Sunday morning is nearly over, I must send happy thankful thoughts off to Shiv & Dom, who are currently back in England. I'm very much looking forward to getting back together to make more music when they return. I'm hoping others will be looking forward to what will doubtless come out of a more focused effort from us this fall, which I believe may be blowing into town as I sit here writing this.

And for those of you who are longing to try something new, try this variation on a French martini, for a change: 4 oz. really good vodka (if we're thinking French, I recommend Grey Goose), 1/2 oz pastis (Pernod, Ricard, whatever), one teaspoon raspberry preserves (again, since we're thinking French, I'd suggest Bonne Maman -- she's not that hard to find). Shake these ingredients together 'til the martini shaker is so cold it hurts your hands. Strain into martini glass (hopefully, the holes on your shaker are large enough for the raspberry seeds to pass through). Enjoy!

r

Last Dispatch - Next Dispatch