New Cities/New Soviets

May 12, 2003

The first green is gold

"The first green is gold." Robert Frost began a poem like that. The rest of the poem is crap, but I have always been taken by that line, particuarly as spring gets underway. The cherry tree has lost its flowers, and the golden leaf buds have since turned vivid green.

A lot has happened since I last blogged. The cart's construction is under way. The plan of the cart has been finalized. The down payment has been made. Now it is in the capable hands of Andy Hor.

The down payment has been made. A simple statement behind which there is a story. Money is not just money, least of all between parents and children. Suffice it to say that there were freakouts all around. But it worked -- the machine continues to gain mass, moving money and metal.


The second half of the week was hell on wheels, and when the wheels came off, it crawled on it's belly. There were parties aplenty to cater, and particularly with the loan I'm getting from my parents, not to mention the incidental costs of the cart, I find myself unable to turn down work. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday were all double shifts with early starts. Sunday began at a cruel 6:30, with parties going out at 8:00 and 8:45. Prep-wise, there were at least fifteen parties this week, six of them for over 150 people. The 3 evening shifts I picked up were spent on-site at the parties (which is easier work and pays better).

Two of the party shifts were spent working at a peripheral event of the Tribeca film festival -- a GM-sponsored "drive-in" on the Tribeca piers, which, oddly, had bleacher-style seating. A real drive-in would have been cool; this was lame. They showed When Harry met Sally and Diner. We catered the VIP's on a houseboat docked at the pier. The rocking of the boat (which was constant) was alternately disorienting, sickening, and exhilirating. Dramamine and Grey Goose vodka flowed in equal measure. On Thursday, the sunset over Jersey looked crazed.

the dead line

There was also a Wedding reception at Studio 450, a top floor/rooftop party space on 31st street overlooking the train yards and the upper part of the dead elevated line. The other end of the dead line is at the Chelsea markets, so there is a connection. No other way to make sense of grilling a massive quantity of chicken, lamb, and seafood in the whipping wind on a converted industrial rooftop, blowing smoke and ash over the drunken guests. There was way too much food, and grilling became almost impossible after the sun went down.

It is done now, and done OK. OK -- "zero killed"; Godard says that is the origin of the famous acronym, and this week it is important to remember. I missed Molly terribly; she missed me more. Because for me the time was always full -- work time filled with tasks. For her, free time, open time, which needs to be in contact with the ones you love and work with. Held apart from other people, free time "fails to thrive" -- that's Molly's phrase for how it felt.

Now we're back together.

Posted by Sam at May 12, 2003 11:23 PM

I just have to say that this shot:

of the dead train line is facinating. I could always see plant life on the top when I walked or drove by, but I am suprised is is so green. What a great part of the city.

Posted by: Jeremy at May 13, 2003 01:41 PM

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