We were going to have dinner at Chelsea Bistro but it’s closed so Mrs. Wife and I ate at East of Eighth instead. As good as ever. Penne with vodka sauce, chicken, sun-dried tomatoes and prosciutto. I’m so damn thirsty but it was worth it. We went to the second floor and were given a table at the window with all of W. 23rd Street spread out below us. We met a friend and his wife who are visiting from Chicago. Another pair of NYC expats. He’s an absolutely brilliant writer and if there is any justice on this planet, he’ll be discovered. Soon. All he needs is a little luck because he’s got the goods. Mrs. Wife’s cousin is an editor at Penguin/Putman and we’re going to forward some of his work with our highest recommendation (for what that’s worth!). It’s not nepotism if the material is great, right?
At the gym this morning, the gentleman exercising next to me was wearing a black Ralph Lauren polo shirt with the collar turned up. I was going to helpfully mention that instead of looking fashionable, he looked like a vain little girl, but he was about thrice my size with a bad scowl on his face. I was fairly certain that he would have put my head in the crook of his arm and crush it like a walnut. Little does he know that I am now mercilessly taunting him in my completely anonymous blog.
Thank you, Unbearable. I’m glad you’re here. I look forward to reading your commute-hardened narratives!
scha·den·freu·de: –noun. Satisfaction or pleasure felt at someone else’s misfortune.