After sleeping at Brittany’s house, I wonder home to Jersey City on so many different trains. The snowfall on the Gravers station made a lovely moment for me, the lone awaiting passenger, to snap a few photos. It’s a shame that station house has been closed and mothballed, it’s a great piece of architecture.
As I do, I have returned to Drexel so I may watch my younger, bendier, gracefuller successors in the Dance Ensemble perform their twice-annual concert. Many alumni attend, not only to enjoy the show itself, but to show solidarity for the present crop of dancers.
This time around, James, Diane, and other alumni organised a bit of an after party for some gracious alumni to meet, mingle, eat greasy food, and talk about when we were young and agile. Photos and inside jokes were shared.
The night was fun. Got to see a few of the girls I danced with (and occasionally bled with). Got to briefly chat with Miriam, head of the dance department and very much a mentor to me at Drexel (and one-time victim of a Fruedian slip when I called her “mum”). Jason, my fellow male dancer turned up. Later in the night I stayed at Brittany’s. Good times. And yet I only snapped the one photo.
Usually, I ignore subway performers, and dismiss them as a noisy interruption of my already noisy sequence of interruptions on my commute. But when two white boys with violins roll up, I think it’s worthy of removing my headphones. Very nice.
After an exhausting week, I stepped out with Craig and Lisa to the grand re-opening of Tower Records for the Never Can Say Goodbye event, hosted by No Longer Empty, an arts advocacy group that revamps abandoned and closed spaces, often with an artsy twist.
Got to see old Drexel pals Naomi (who helped organise the event) and Sarah, with whom I used to dance.
While packed, the evening did show off some interesting music-themed artwork. Good stuff.
The rugby team, that is. Made the long, cold journey to the Upper East Side for a night of music and comedy. A team fundraiser/bonding experience. Even after all this time, it’s odd to see the fellas dressed in street clothes. Like when I was a lifeguard, or on the dance ensemble. The phrase “I’m not used to seeing you with clothes on” is thrown around, and yes, it has gotten awkward at times.
Years after Nick and I were flatmates at that quirky art school in the south of England, I attend his wedding. Nick and Karen met in Boston, and although they’ve since moved to California, they returned to their home city for the nuptial ceremonials.
For the second night in a row, Boston is blanketed in snow. We brave the ice and snow, to find ourselves at the lusty Omni Parker House, where we are subsequently stuffed with food and treated to a predictable playlist that still has an undeniable power to motivate us to butt-shaking.
Through the snow and wind of January, I journey to Boston, for the wedding of grad school flatmate Nick, and his lady Karen. Lauren, my old high school chum, has graciously offered to put me up for the night, thus saving me the hassle and costs of staying a hotel, which I forgot to reserve anyway.
Lauren’s place is comfy, and distinctively female.
And yes, that is a foam penis and pig in a jar of water. That’s how she rolls.
As a sort of an after-Christmas gift to myself, I fought the crowds and B&H photo and bought myself a new camera. The Canon Digital Elph SD780 IS is the fourth in the Elph series I’ve owned since 2000, and they’ve served me well. This one is smaller than the others. So naturally, I went around and took a bunch of stupid photos of nothing.
And then Mike and I went to Chili’s on the coldest day in a long long time.
We braved the snow of Brooklyn to see Joaquin play the piano and entertain us during the brunch hour at the Manhattan Inn in Greenpoint. That about sums it up.
This being a recurring gig for Joaquin, it is most probable that I will find myself back there on weekend mornings, in spite of the terrible service and lack of skim milk.
