Counting Blocks

Yesterday I walked fifteen short blocks north and four long (avenue) east to the attorney's offices for the closing meeting of the cash-out refinance on my loft. My ass will be out of this financial sling in three days, and I will have breathing room until I establish regular cash flow from the various ventures I am starting-up. After signing and signing and signing some more, I walked home again. In all thirty short blocks and eight long ones.

Two and a half miles closer toward a financial respite.

Later in the afternoon, I received an invitation to see a premiere screening of Perfume, based on Patrick Susskind's novel by the same name. I couldn't resist. I read the book twenty years ago. In fact, I located my copy and realized that the printing is a First American Edition, copyright 1986. Deckle-edged, it has accumulated its own scent.

Like millions of its readers, I have distinct mental images for the story. I wanted to see how the film handled it, now two decades later.

I walked thirteen short blocks south, and four long blocks east to the theater, where I met Catnip, my most frequent movie-going date.  A little more than a mile.

In short, I liked the film. The story is about a serial killer, and more so than Showtime's Dexter - to which I am addicted - it portrays the lead character's absence of human empathy. The murders look like works of art, very different from the recent spate of blood-and-gore, slaughter-style films.

It has that European fairy tale quality, which may elicit guffaws from American audiences, who cannot suspend disbelief required for the final scenes.

Still, the images reflected the ones the book created in my mind's eye. And I like that. It's a beautiful-looking film, and worth seeing for that alone. That, and Dustin Hoffman's turn as the perfumer, Giuseppe Baldini.   

Afterward, Catnip and I walked to Employees Only for Liz Taylor Jr.'s birthday. Counting blocks from the East to West Village is tricky. Arm in arm, Catnip and I pointed out second-story, evening-lit windows to each other. The rows of holiday-festooned townhouses from East Twelfth Street to Hudson comprised six long blocks and another six short. The night was beautiful. Another mile.   

Liz was transcendent, ravishing in her perfectly-tailored white blouse. Hail, hail, the gang was there, of course including Surfer Girl and CeeCee.

Surfer Girl reminded me that one year ago, same place, same reason: Liz's birthday at EO, she and I sat at the bar, and smoked. There is no smoking in NYC bars, especially not the kind of smoke we smoked, and yet we did. We did not reprise that moment, but laughed well in its memory. 

   

After a mere three glasses of champagne, I walked the last twenty short and two long blocks home, the final mile and a half of an excellent walking day.

Comments

[HH]

Ah, Bruno, or should I say, "Desperate Plato," the fete was made all the better for your being there.

[Bruno]

Whichever the distances walked and just in the same way you talks of it, L Taylor JR's birthday was one of the best times I had in NY... and your presence with us added to it greatly dear!

Hugs

Bruno