June 21, 2016- I’m kind of like an annoying vegan who does Crossfit when giving unsolicited information in the form of: I’m a native of NYC. Yeah, that’s right. Who cares? Exactly.
So I am back to my home city. Older, yes. Wiser, depends what’s considered wise. Okay, WISEGUY in the city. That’s me. Documenting movements and observations for the sake of my fading momentary recollective muscle. Waiting on a high floor in a Murray Hill apt facing the East River. Living in hotels til I can move in.
It’s Gay Pride next weekend so I figured, being a pathological aficionado of symbolism, I would begin remembering this journey seated amongst othe ne’er do wells at Starbucks on 7th & Grove in the West Village where, putting aside my living-in-the-moment California vibe, I plan to live out my Golden Girl years in a quaint and old-world bijou townhouse with a garden and roof deck. Doesn’t cost a thing to think about the distant future, since any kind of future doesn’t exist. It’s one of the few things in life that’s still free. Tell it to the bank. Everything else is mondo expensive.
Thus the mid-life Manhattan experience begins. Technically it’s day 5 but as I’ve learned, the restart button can always be pushed at will. And I’m gonna push it, push it real good.
Non-sequitur of the moment: I seem to be a hit with the all-encompassing Daddy-hunter crowd on Scruff. Rimming is the new “hellohowareya.” Howdy boys. I think it’s gonna be a good one. Cheers.