RandomCha

I finally share my recipe for the Perfect Manhattan.

It’s good to live it again.

From Friday till Sunday I was staying in Brooklyn with my friend Derrick and it was gorgeous. Leaves in every conceivable autumnal color: golds, orange, brown, red. It was like that SNL sketch. It was like a Woody Allen movie.

For the first time I think I was able to clearly separate Manhattan from Brooklyn in my mind, and I came to the conclusion that Manhattan is fun but I’d rather live in Brooklyn. As Derrick said, "You can relate to it." And yet even so, I wouldn’t necessarily trade it for Chicago. It’s still expensive, confusing, the streets seem endless and have boring names. But it’s exciting. It’s like a bunch of atoms in a jar, colliding randomly and at great velocity.

Before I left for the airport Derrick and I took a long walk to Green-wood Cemetery and saw the parrots. Seeing them perched in their elaborate nests way up in the air, chattering like mad–I’d describe it as Tropical Gothic.  There were leaves all over the ground and tombstones sticking up every which way. Tour groups and people just walking around.

Walking through the city on Saturday night, every place was jammed. Bars, restaurants, lounges stretching out as far as the eye could see and they were all packed. Every conceivable combination. We went to a bar and I ordered a double whiskey for Derrick and a McSorley’s ale for myself and with tip it was $22. On Saturday after the screening, Jessi and Dylan and I went to a sort of sports bar around the corner, on Bowery, and it almost felt like being back in Chicago. Yuppies are the same no matter what city you’re in. We sat for a long time, reminiscing. Our own little group coming together from far-flung locales for a rainy afternoon in Manhattan. The Czechvar beer and turkey burger tasted good. We’re all old enough now that when we say, "Well, that was ten years ago," it’s actually fuzzy.

Chicago Trader Vic’s Is …

Black Sabbath [1963]

1. Mary comes into the apartment and Rosy immediately fixes her a drink. She doesn’t even ask if she wants one.
2. The ghost comes nearer. The woman begins to strangle herself as it approaches.
3. Boris Karloff says goodbye to us, riding a horse through a forest. The camera pulls back and we see that we’re in a studio; the horse is fake, there’s a gobo being used to create lighting effects, and propmen are circling around with tree branches. The End.

I’m headed to NYC tomorrow for the weekend. On Saturday I’m screening the rough cut of a film I shot in college. A bunch of friends will be there and I hope to get some feedback on whether or not it’s worth finishing (finally). Other than that, my schedule is pretty flexible so if anyone out there wants to meet up while I’m in town, drop me a line at randomcha(at)gmail(dot)com

I woke up at 6:45, bleary-eyed, when Andy’s alarm clock radio went off. On NPR they were speaking with John Lewis and some other people who were celebrating in Atlanta last night, and they played clips of Obama’s speech last night. And, barely awake, I started to cry again.

Last night at 10 o’clock when they cut from the local NBC coverage back to NYC, there was a stark, simple graphic onscreen. Barack Obama Elected 44th President of the United States. There were seven of us in the room and we went completely silent. Then they cut to Grant Park and there were several minutes where all they did was show people in the crowd celebrating. We were still silent. Stunned.