The Crazy Lady Downstairs

Continuing our pattern of waking up at 11:00 am is impossible to break. Today was no different. Finally rolling out of bed, we decided to head out to find some food and coffee, of course. Downstairs is an interesting little vintage clothing shop that we've talked about looking around in and today was the day. Can I say it was worth it? You betcha -- the $46 I spent on shirts and pants was definitely worth the accompanying side-show.

As we walk in the door, we immediately take notice of the owner. She's an interesting-looking lady and our first impression is only a taste of what's to come. She's wearing cowboy boots, white long underwear-looking pants, a denim skirt over that, a bright cowboy shirt, and I believe a vest. Her hair was classic: a Mr. T looking mohawk hairdo, but created with contrasting bleached and black hair. This lady's speech and volume make my client Jay look like a wallflower (read: strikingly loud).

As I'm looking through the jacket selection I'm completely distracted by her conversation with what seems to be a couple old friends. She's explaining that she wants to be known worldwide for vintage clothing, a noble business aim I suppose, and intends to do this through Podcasting (Podcasting is where people can create virtual radio stations over the Internet). I sort of lose the conversation from here, I'm trying to be polite and not completely eavesdrop.

I'm finding some cool stuff, but literally on the last aisle we turn and the owner is standing at the end. She walks up to us and asks friendfully, "What are your guys signs?" As we tell her, she begins nodding her head vigorously and tells us "Yep, a very good match". Then proceeds, for the next 10 or so minutes, to go into great details about our respective signs, how they relate to each other, us, and her past relationships. Actually she was pretty interesting, but our one-sided conversation breaks up as a new customer steps in the door -- a handsome young man. I didn't get the details of what she said, but she had explained her plans for the evening and convinced the guy to accompany her.

We were trapped by her at the end of our row and her new conversation, so we politely browsed some more. Ready to get on with the rest of our day, we finally walked towards the door with our finds (I found a few nice things I was unwilling to part with). She immediately changes gears to acknowledge us, but instead of actually ringing up my items begins to tell us about the impending visit of her friend, who happens to be a "upper-eschelon avant-garde pornstar".

So, we proceed to get waaay too much information about her friend. Apparently she's coming into town for a couple reasons, to "entertain" a local politician and make a quick movie. The owner is quite excited about this and goes into great detail about both events. Her friend is a vegan, which plays many roles and provides many details to the story -- all of which I'll leave for another time. I'm basically doing everything I can to, alternately, keep my chin off the floor and not fall down in a fit of laughter. Laurie notices the owners' "date" down the row chuckling at each high point. Our story is finally interrupted (honestly, another 15 crazy minutes) by a young girl coming to pick up a few bags of clothes. The clothes are props for a movie being shot down in SoHo -- you guessed it, another porno. This prompts our storyteller to again shift gears, ring up our clothes, and finally release us. As we're leaving, she's already deep in conversation with the girl and we both smile as she has no idea what she's in for.

We spend the day at a nice sandwich/coffee shop who's normally interesting events cannot possibly compare to what had just happened. Laurie did have an exciting time at the Betsy Johnson sample sale, which she can explain much better than I.

We made plans to meet our friend Ann for dinner down in SoHo and are, like usual, running down to the last minute. Ann is a floormate from Laurie's dorm and one of my friends from High School. Without Ann, Laurie and I would have likely never met, as I was long past dorm-cruising for girlfriends and Laurie's wide-eyed first year of college would have certainly led her in other directions. Getting off the subway in SoHo, we were now quite late and I called Ann to let her know. After stomping around way too much of the neighborhood we find the bar and head in. Ann is nowhere to be found, but in a half and hour she walks in, greets us, and introduces her boyfriend Chris. Turns out she was wrongly waiting next door and figured it out when she saw her boyfriend walking into the "wrong" place.

The restaurant we're at isn't all that interesting, but the conversation was lively and it was nice to catch up with Ann. We headed from there to an Argentinian place just up the street. Being a half hour late, our table is long gone and Chris does his best to get us another -- in obviously fluent spanish. He looks nothing like a fluent Spanish speaker, but turns out to have had an interesting upbringing in Puerto Rico. We talk and wait for an hour, but wind up with the best table in the house -- a cozy table near the window.

Through dinner, which is an awesome mix of steak, french fries, and empanadas, we get the low-down on possible things to do in New York. It's interesting to hear their take on things, but I quickly notice, like Jay and Alex a day before, that it's easy to fall into a routine and not really enjoy and make use of the place in which they live. That's true of any place (and certainly true of my life in Boulder), but it's hard for me to comprehend why anyone would put up with the noise, hassle, and costs of living in NYC and spend most of their time in a simple routine that seems to include lots and lots of take-out.

We leave dinner and decide to have an after-dinner drink at another neat place just up the street. It's a turkish place and I'm disappointed to see the band putting their stuff away as we enter. We decide on drinks and, luckily, Chris is adventurous and asks our waiter for something Turkish. Hearing "ouzo-like" I decide on something boring, but as the waiter walks away I stop him and ask if there are any other culturally-specific drinks. Nope. Instead, he waits to bring me my drink until I can have a taste of Chris'. I immediately wince at the smell of black licorice, but decide I can get over it for a little taste of Turkey. As the waiter comes back, he explains the drink (Riki) and the traditions surrounding it. I wind up enjoying it a lot, probably more for the accompanying story and the ambience of the place.

We say our goodbyes to Ann and Chris and make impossible plans for a local tour of the Upper East side later in the week. Laurie and I decide to take advantage of the warm evening and walk the 20 blocks home. It's a nice stroll, peppered with clusters of activity and good people-watching. We're thirsty by the time we get to the highly recommended White Horse Tavern (thanks Greg!) and decide to go in as we've talked about stopping several other times, but hadn't taken the opportunity. It's a neat place, but I'm always struck by how I feel most comfortable in these types of places -- places that remind me of home.

We make our way the few remaining blocks, and set our alarms for the impossible hour of 6:00 am in hopes of getting Saturday Night Live standby tickets. Not going to get much sleep tonight . . .