(Sorry; inside joke.)

Man, I'm behind. I'm not sure whether to be appalled that I wrote only eight entries last month, or be relieved that it was, at least, a 167% increase over the previous month. A little of both, I guess. If I manage to continue that rate of increase, this month will be pretty good.

After the ceremony, the breakfast commenced, at which point we discovered that nobody had remembered to bring the hot cups. Given a room full of people without their morning coffee, this was clearly a crisis situation, so I ran about three blocks to the nearest grocery, bought two packs of cups, and ran back. Mission accomplished!

We decided to meet at Mendy's, a restaurant / deli / sports bar in Manhattan. This was chosen largely because it's pretty much the only place to eat that I'm familiar with in all of Manhattan (excepting a couple of pizza shops I've been to, but can never seem to find when I'm looking for them).

I first found out about the place shortly before Mary Anne came to visit in late 1998. We'd decided to meet, and, as the native of the area, I was supposed to figure out where to do so. I, of course, had no idea. So I called a friend for advice; the only friend I could think of who (a) was Orthodox Jewish, (b) was dating -- actually, I think he was already engaged by this point, so maybe make that "had dated," and (c) would take the concept of my meeting a net.friend in stride. The first two gave him experience with kosher restaurants, and the last made him safe to ask.

"I'm looking for a restaurant in Manhattan," I said. "A place that's... well..." I searched for the right word.

"Cheap?" he said.

"...well, yes," I said, a bit grudgingly. "But also someplace where you can have a nice conversation. Not like a crowded pizza shop... But, yeah, cheap is definitely an important criterion. But nice."

To make a longish conversation short, using the "Dining Out" ads from the Jewish Week for inspiration, we eventually decided that Mendy's would fit the bill. In more ways than one.

And, sure enough, the meeting with Mary Anne was lovely, and the place turned out to be quite nice indeed.

Now, I'm not really the adventurous type. Familiarity is my friend. No matter what subject we're dealing with, I tend to find one thing I like and stick with it forever after. This is the reason I saw Harriet the Spy three times, while not seeing some other films that looked interesting that summer. I knew I liked Harriet, and the others might not have been as good, so why not go with the sure thing?

This explains why, when Mary Anne visited again earlier this year, I proposed meeting at Mendy's again. I liked it the previous time; why chance some new place? Which also explains why I suggested meeting Sibley and Nicole there. So it seems that Mendy's is now my official rendezvous point for visiting escribitionists.

Hey, their pastrami is pretty good.

On the way there...

Actually, I don't know how to describe this. Mere words cannot possibly do it justice. See, we were a couple of blocks from the toy store when I saw this building. It had Trump's name on it. It also had... trees growing on it. Quite a few of them, in a sort of terraced steps arrangement.

Trees. Practically identical trees. Going up the side/top of the building, well above street level.

It was... wrong. Utterly wrong.

I'm still not sure exactly why it was wrong, and I can't describe it well enough to help much, but every fiber in my being, every atom of my sense of esthetics, was screaming shrilly in horror and disbelief.

I couldn't drag my eyes off it. I just stared at the thing, ejaculating inarticulate yelps until we finally passed the building.

I think the worst part, the bit that really gave the sight its force, was knowing that somebody had thought this was a good idea. That somebody had paid lots of money to achieve this look. That this travesty was intentional, was somebody's brainchild.

I'd thought I was jaded, but apparently Donald Trump still has the power to shock me.

The one thing I hadn't considered was that there's no way of turning the bells off. So we walked out of the store, and a couple of blocks later, I noticed a jingling sound... and shortly thereafter realized that it was coming from my knapsack.

I jingled all the way home.

Now, if only I knew why people kept asking us if we had any Phish tickets... actually, it was the oddest thing. We passed through this whole crowd of people who all seemed to have a problem with one of their fingers, which was held stiffly outwards, raised slightly. Clearly, I decided, there was a convention of People With Monodigital Paralysis in town.

But then they noted that, in point of fact, they were all Phish fans, which presented the question of whether people with stiff fingers were natually attracted to Phish, or whether listening to their music caused finger problems. Perhaps, we concluded, it was a condition latent in some people; only True Fans of Phish manifested this condition after listening to their music.

Alternately, it might have been a hand signal from people who wanted tickets, but that's awfully far-fetched. The other theory seems much more likely.

Which would be a nice idea now also, I think. G'night, y'all.