Monty’s Rosie Fanpage
Who is this Rosie, you ask? Well, since I am using an alias on this site I figured it was only fair to give an alias to my ladyfriend as well, since she may be often mentioned. Oft-mentioned. I have previously referred to her as “my ladyfriend,” “my one loyal reader,” and, once, by her real name, which you hackers might be able to find by using the tricky “scroll” operation on your bruiser. Browser. Anyway, I don’t actually ever call her Rosie, but I call her a million other names. But didn’t want to refer to her on this site by one of my special names for her because these are secret, powerful names that are for her ears only. It could be like those super-words in Dune. Dig? Dune is cool. “Tell me about your homelife, Monty….” So anyway, why Rosie? Whatever. She’s Rosie.
What I Did For my Summer Vacation, aka Labor Day Weekend
Rosie and I decided ultimately that we lacked the fundage to leave this crusty cursty city for the weekend, so I asked her to pretend we were on vacation in New York for a couple of days. Blessed dear, she played along. It actually worked, because any time one of us started to get the weekendy glooms (She: “I should be in my studio,” Me: “I should be writing” or “Life is a purposeless string of meaningless moments, and meals), the other would remind, “We’re on vacation!” And because Rosie is so charming, every time she said it I bubbled with glee, along with the usual drool.
Friday we went to the Theah-tah. Avenue Q, which was flantastic, a sweet caramel custard for the eyes, ears, and mind. Somewhat less tastily, beforehand we dined at Republic, because it was there. I find the food preparation “workmanlike” and “adequate,” and while my salmon was “fine,” Rosie’s soup was “bland.” (I’m doing the Zagat thing, in case that was not clear) The cocktails were “verging on over-sweet” but they “did the trick.” Some find the atmosphere “bubbling” and “pleasant,” but those people are “wrong.” But it’s “quick” and “I didn’t want to think about dinner,” though after they let Rosie down, “fuck that place.”
Avenue Q is the musical show with puppets, that’s like an adult Sesame Street vibe. Quite brilliantly conceived and executed. As you may have read there are songs like The Internet is for Porn and Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist. If you have a brain, a face, and any of the associated sensory organs, then this is the show for you. This show comes with a money-back guarantee: Meaning if you see the show and don’t like it, then your parents can ask the stork for their money back!!! Also, the Jack & ginger I got during intermission was delightful. Rosie also enjoyed her white wine and peanut M&M’s, though afterwards the show her sweet tooth demanded still more. Oh, Nicole Kidman saw the show too. So there. As I left I was standing about a foot away from her. If my foot was a foot long, I could have kicked her without moving! (?) But I don’t want to kick her, or kiss her, because she’s just an actress who is kind of weird-looking. Anyhow we rounded out the everning with some okay desserts at… this place. Wherever. It’s in the Village by Senor Swanky’s, which was playing some very loud Fitty-Cen.
On Saturday we got off to a late start and a slow middle but our mission was clear: NY Botanical Garden in the Bronx. There’s a reason it’s called “NY” rather than “Bronx,” which is b/c it’s the Real Muthuhfuckin Deal No-Bullshit Bizzotizzanical garden in the NYC, you could fit like 8 Brooklyn BG’s in like, the NYBG’s herb garden. Word!
Anyway, we got there at about 3. It was overcast but the air was quite mediumish and pleasant. We wandered hither and thither, checking out this and that. Beautiful stuff. Stopped at the Café, where they had half-bottles of chilled chardonnay! We got some sandwiches and a halfbottle each of the wine and brought it with. We took a wrong turn in the Native Forest, but then found ourselves nearby a quaint, queer gazebo just as it was starting to sprinkle. So we perched there and ate our sandos and drank some wine, feeling full of fun and calm. After lunch we smoked a huge fatty, a fat huey, which was perhaps ill-timed b/c mere minutes later in started to really downpour. We had just left the protection of the gazeeb to go have a sit-down with some ducks we’d spotted on a pond on the way over, when it really started pouring down and we had to run back to same said gazeeb. I then, for various reasons including, possibly, some ill digestion of a heavy sandwich, too much recent self-indulgence, the rain, and a gnawing feeling of failure from somewhere in my soul, well, I got into a bit of a funk. It began to rain harder and showed no sign of letting up, and though we probably ought to have just waited, Rosie was keen on the (roof-having) Conservatory and I was game for anything that might distract me from the feeling that I was about to dissolved into a cloud of lonely particles. So comes along a tram: And we jog towards, yelling to the driver “Hey, can we please get on, we are getting rather rained on heavily,” and he slows down to a complete stop to say, “I’d rather you get on at the stop back there,” and drives on. This man one day will pay. Meanwhile we run for shelter outside some building that is not for the public. A security man sees us sputtering and cursing and, as he comes to the door I’m fearing he is going to shoo us away, as we have been so ill-treated, but this man is not only human but an extremely nice human. He ushered us in and bade us dry off in the restrooms and wait out the storm, perhaps make use of the vending machines if we so desired. After a minute in the bathroom I felt almost human again. Bathrooms, for some reason, seem to calm me somewhat even at my most anxious; it’s as if, though for all I know I might vomit up a kidney or shit out my liver at any given moment, at least I'll well-positioned to dispose of the mess. Geez, I really shouldn’t smoke weed at my age. And I don’t mean that nobody my age should smoke, just that I shouldn’t. I mean, I look around and see that a lot of people around my age and older still smoke, and that somehow makes me feel like I should too, but recently I thought of all the people who don’t smoke and say “Every time I smoke it makes me paranoid,” and I realize, I am one of those people except I still smoke.
Anyhow, I was still jittery like a cricket but this nice security man was being very nice. He told us all sorts of information about the building we were in, and other BG info. This man was of light-medium brown hue, medium-round build, and had a very special moustache the shape of which, if you can imagine, was like the opposite of Hitler’s. In other words, his and Hitler’s would fit together like puzzle pieces to make one full moustache. But this man will not be locking lips with the likes of Hitler, for this is a very good man. I thought, We must look so baked, but after a minute, it seemed he would not care either way. He offered to lead us through some personnel-only off-limits wing of the building which would leave us near a tram-stop. When we told him we wanted to see the Conservatory so let’s go for it, he said “Ah, we’re feeling a bit adventurous today,” and we loved him forever for it. Through all this, some lady-employee in the same foyer had silently accepted our presence, and perhaps our man had been comporting himself somewhat in her presence, for as soon and we were though the off-limits door and out of her sight he began to leap and bound merrily like a young gazelle, his funny round self bouncing upstairs like a balloon on two springs. Though this trip was quite short, in the thirty yards he led us through he managed to convey a whole host of worldly truths and universal virtues, rounding it out with an open door into a vast rotunda and some sincere well-wishes. Beamingly, we spied, mid-rotunda, a big glass case full of various amazing orchids. And outside, a tram. Unfortunately, this tram was driven by a different tram-man, and so the first filthy bastard yet lives. This tram had many seats, and apparently, nowhere to go. Urban planners should find out what the BG people feed their speedbumps, for I have never seen speedbumps work so effectively. Every time the tram came within a mile of one it ground to a complete halt. Had we known, we surely would have chased the first one. The bastard yet lives.
Anyhow, when he hopped off the tram it had stopped raining, but the Conservatory was still our goal. We did walk through a lovely herb garden, where we remembered earlier an 8ish year old boy whining to his parents “Let’s get outta here. When are we gonna get out of here?” and at first I thought, this poor little is completely unmoved by the beauty of nature, but then he whined, “When are we gonna get out of this creepy place?,” and I realized he was moved indeed, and not necessarily so different from me.
The Conservatory was mind-boggling. Such shapes and colors as I have never seen, nor imagined. The ornamental birthwort floored us. Rosie and I were thrilled to find out that black pepper, cinnamon, paper, and nutmeg – oh, especially nutmeg! – come from plants of exceptional beauty. When we got to the aquatic plants we though we’d landed on another planet. I can’t even go there.
After the NYBG we headed back to Grand Central, then ended up at nearby TGIF for a drinky. We were on vacation, after all. Damn, that place makes a good strong big drink! I had two Singapore slings while Rosie had some Yellow Bug Lady from the Bahamas, something. As we watched the waiters and bartender work (Rosie and I met working together at a restaurant, so we look at those kind of things), we admired the very logical and efficient setup of the joint. Both of us having worked at high-concept, high-end flops of restaurants built with no concept of Logic and Function in mind, we wondered, why don’t idiot restauranteurs take a cue from these big corporate places who, if nothing else, know how a fucking restaurant works? The wings were a bit dry. We came home and ordered in some thai food (review of the Thai Café soon to follow) and watched Desperado, which disappointed me b/c I was expecting more. I mean, this Rodriguez bastard writes, directs, shoots, edits, scores, which is pretty impressive…But maybe he should let someone else write? I had high expectations b/c I saw Spy Kids 2 on the plane, and was very impressed by the overall quality of things. I figured, if he can make a kids’ movie like that….But that’s about it. Desperado is no more mature than Spy Kids, there’s just a lot of blood in it. And a couple boobies.
Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. I’d rather skip it. But I did go to a very nice party at a friend’s house, and saw some wonderful people I had not seen in a long time. I also drank way too much. I was dozing at the party, so decided to take the train home at a reasonable hour (11?) On the Path train the window fell out of the door in the middle of the tunnel as I was leaning on it (the train’s version of a fat joke?). Luckily I did not fall out. But I fell off, as I got off in downtown Manhattan and continued drinking, solo. Having called Rosie at 11:30ish and saying I was coming home shortly, I instead staggered in at 4:30 and woke up at 9 with little memory of anything after midnight. I saw Rosie was mad and had to ask to find out when I’d gotten home. Disgusting. Pathetic. But Rosie, wonderful lady, not only forgave and pitied me but treated me with much kindness. After I spent the day playing Playstation we rearranged the living room, her idea, so that there is now a lot more room and my desk sits comfortable by the window. God bless her.
~Monty
3:29:39 PM 
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