28 January 2008...12:18 pm

You Make It Easy To Watch The World With Love

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Ruthie and I tumbled off the 6 train on Friday night; it had taken some time to get to 86th Street, and once we left the station we were a little stunned.

Oh, I finally said. I think I saw Juno near here, and then I wrinkled my nose. Best Picture, really? Seeing it proved to be a top movie watching experience, but not because I wasn’t consistently embarrassed for the dialogue and Jason Bateman’s career. As it happens, it is v. arousing to be seated next to the only other sexually alive person in a theater full of citizens who have long since died their sexual deaths and in front of a screen showing people who are, in a sense, just being born into theirs.

And with that, we were off, funneled through a long block of scaffolding that ended, fortuitously, on Third Avenue.


I wrote down the name, Ruthie said.

Oh, yeah, what was it? Pub Grille?

Pub Grill Water McHole?

A Hole To Put Your Pub In!



Grille’s McJackson Pub Hole Water.

Oh, McJackson.

The most fun thing about mocking Upper East bar names is that if you put an “e” on the end of each word, one of them is “pube.” Pubes are failsafe fun.

Air_You Make It Easy.mp3

My paternal grandparents used to live in this planned community called Leisure Towne. My family called it Leisure Towney. This was during a period of our lives when Hannah and I would say either “nostril” or “armpit” for every MadLibs noun and create what were possibly the most hilarious stories anyone has ever written. We were pre-pube, basically, so armpits and nostrils were as good as it got.



I kept saying that Ruthie and I were on Third Avenue and East 81st Street to get date rapped, but that was only half-true. Really, Thessaly had invited us to an open bar–her friend Alex happened to have won it? Alex entered something and a week later an extended circle of her acquaintances converged on McJackson’s Mad River Pube Grille to drink shitty whiskey for not much money.


As it happened, the shitty whiskey muffled whatever emotional poise I have managed to develop in my life, and the night ended tearfully. I haven’t cried that hard in a long time; it was almost liberating, like a real-life Tumblr blog. (Ariel and I made one of those, by the way; it’s here, and we will probably be updating it in scorching five month intervals so, you know, RSS that shit).


Air_Surfing On A Rocket.mp3

Long before the late night weeping, though, I’d already been informed that I looked like I might cry. It was just the line for the bar, and all the people in it. It felt like high school, but with beer muscle (apparently “beer muscle” is a normal and basically uninteresting thing to say, but the first time I heard the phrase I thought it meant that Lucifer, president of the Williamsburg motorcycle gang Legion of Doom, was the kind of street corner poet of whom all young journalists dream), and I found it overwhelming.


Even with all of my hyperbolized date rape talk leading up to Friday night, it soon became clear that there were far more women in the Pub Grille than men; they stood really close together and at least one of them threw up in the bathroom around ten.


I think there are more men than women in most places I go socially; that was the case on Saturday, it seemed, at the Chelsea Art Museum, but also maybe I just wasn’t used to the kind of mass feminity on display at the open bar. I do sometimes travel in a pack-esque female formation, but there’s usually at least one boyfriend in the mix, and our conversations don’t usually involve everyone saying nothing at once.


I feel weird writing this; I love women! I don’t like feeling weird about groups of white women just because they are all wearing khaki! (Groups of white men, however: fine. I reserve all of my khaki-inspired disgust for you.)


Last night, Mary and her twin sister, Lizzie, made us a Sicilian feast. Dinner took awhile to prepare, and so in between crossword forays and discussions of loves lost, found, and Scientologist, we talked politics.

Frank Rich wrote a great piece on why Hilary can’t win, said Mia.

And McCain may be unbeatable.

I heard someone on the street say that if it’s Giuliani-Clinton, Bloomberg will definitely announce.

Mary likes Obama. But his speeches, she giggled, hope!

Nation! I said.

Together! All!

America! One!

Hope! Change for hope!

Change hope all America!

And it was almost the Pub Grille again, al la Riverdale.

Buy more Air here. Also go to the band’s website, I see in it the future of Red Ad because the future of Red Ad is once and ever rock stars.

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