Sitting on the Tram to Manhattan from Roosevelt Island. Which is where I live now.
Pretty cool how they let you bring your bike on the Tram.
No one cares about the bike, no one’s staring at me.
Wheee, here we go.
Bet this is my 43rd Tram ride and it still feels like a roller coaster. Still confident we’d survive if the cable snapped. Jump up in the air right before it hits the water, hold my breath, swim right through the broken glass, save a couple people, get called a hero in The Post.
Haven’t had a milkshake in a while. Or sushi. Or a fancy massage where they walk on your back.
Look at that view, check out the barge, the yachts. Off to Bermuda or Barbados, no doubt. Good thing I didn’t go to that destination wedding in Jamaica—saved thousands of dollars, no getting hacked up with a machete or nailed to a tree like a rooster.
What’s that smell?
Getting the vacuum cleaner back from Gracious Home on Friday. Kitty litter all over the rug. Shouldn’t have done my stretches there. Am I the only one smelling this on me?
Not going to tease the cat anymore. No more fishing her out from under the table and draping her over my shoulders and doing the crazy Scoopie dance in front of the mirror when she’s not into it.
Not so sure about that Gristedes tuna fish last night.
There’s our building way over there. A “green” building. It’s dark in the hallway—scary—then you walk out your door and the lights turn on. Got a garbage disposal. Stuff just disappears. Fascinating. Girlfriend yells, Be careful not to leave a fork in there. She’s kind of a Debbie Downer sometimes.
Gym downstairs no one uses. Library to go to if you have a temper tantrum. Other perks include no one ever stops by to say hello or “Hey, we’re down the street, come meet us for brunch, it’s my birthday,” etc. And when you fall into that sizing-you-up conversation about where you live, you know it used to be: “Oh you live on West 74th, where exactly? Well, you have Fairway. We live in the West Village. Charles Street. We win.”
Now when you tell them you live on Roosevelt Island, they don’t know what to say because they’ve never been there.
So friendly and irony-free. No hipsters. Overheard some people on the Tram the other day laughing about Seinfeld. “Remember the one where Elaine was doing that dance”—like that would happen in the East Village. Guy was singing along earnestly to a Beatles song in the deli—like that would happen in Brooklyn. Only one deli on Roosevelt Island. One bar. One liquor store. One restaurant. One grocery store. There’s a Duane Reade opening up!
Not a lot of loud jabbering-on-their-cellphones-type assholes. Outside the Beresford on the Upper West Side right now, a doorman is getting a taxi for a resident. “Look at me! One of the perks of being rich! Don’t have to hail my own cab! Saves a lot of time!”
Taxis go to Roosevelt Island but they don’t leave. You take the red bus to the subway or the Tram. Costs a quarter.
That woman’s pretty. Wish I had my Sam Moore T-shirt on now, not this one that says: “Because, without beer, things do not seem to go as well.”
Everyone’s so excited cause Karl Rove resigned. Please.
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