Upon Returning to Carnegie Hill

“We drove over to Fifth Avenue, so warm and soft, almost pastoral,
on the summer Sunday afternoon that I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a
great flock of white sheep turn the corner” F S F

Not so much. Heatwave. Sour Apple. Much muggier and uglier than down south for sure. The house empty. Haunted by only me this holiday weekend. Yikes. Apartment a mess. Shop a mess. Cool new chairs. Hair a mess. Need to shave. Clean all this up. Mail. Laundry, Swiffer. Bills. Move things around. Someone forgot to take out the trash. The milk went bad on the 30th of May.

I do the same thing every time I have been away. I walk all the way down to Washington Square. Straight down. Admire the Met. Admire Mr. Frick and his garden. The Central Park Zoo. The Sherry Netherland. See what is playing at the Paris Theater. All the fancy windows to ruminate over branding and life and everything else. Why are these things in these windows? They opened an Armani restaurant in midtown. Those crazy Italians. Too much heat last night. Zero people. The avenue all my own. I almost went to St. Pats and hit my knees but I have been pretty well behaved lately. I made it to 40th and 5th. Drenched in sweat, I hailed a cab to West 4th to see if the lights were on in my old apartment.

I was going to go eat a burger at Corner Bistro, mainly cause it is cheap, the beer too, but on the way I got distracted and then thirsty, and ended up eating grilled cheese at the same place I always eat a grilled cheese. It’s funny when you first get back from down south you are conditioned to smile and say hi to the passers by. The old people say hi, the crazies too.  Is it Halloween? Everybody is in costume below 14th street west of 8th avenue. I love Halloween.

I miss New Orleans in two shakes. Can smoke indoors. Can drink outdoors. Not here, neither. They say this city is civilized.

I just sat on those bricks in the middle of the street in the pedestrian walkway and took pictures for tourists until my tummy hurt and then back up the west side highway in a yellow cab, way after midnight, head out the window. Back inside buddy. I got across the park and home and sat in front of the Guggenheim, singing, “In the meantime let me tell you that I love you…” No one could hear me, I was just waiting for the morning, waiting for the city to snap out of its slumber and get back to work. I don’t believe in holidays. As far as I am concerned, every day is Thanksgiving.

Pace fuori,

Anthony

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