Update-in-brief:
After viewing the fantastic, mesmerizing, practically-silent film Schultze gets the blues, I proceeded to the Comet Cafe (soon to be closed for renovation, alas) and had a go on the toilet (I even went so far as to deface my first public latrine wall since being in Spain, five years ago, by proclaiming on the wall to my right, "New [Bomb] Nationals 4eva"), followed by reading from my recently-arrived May Atlantic the dispatch from Wm. Langewische (quite possibly my favorite present-day journalist) about his accomodation in Baghdad ("Hotel Baghdad: Fear and Lodging in Iraq").
But, my Coconut Creme double-shot latte and medium-reading could not sustain my interest. Not when I saw two (as they turned out to be) sisters smoking Camel Ultralights and discussing... Lord knows what they were discussing, before I interrupted them, but I conversed with them for a good half-hour, and had them eating from the palm of my hand. (It's a wonder how I can be so... Not civil, nor courtesy, but politic in small group, social setting, while so blackly comic and rude ("not rude as good, but rude as in uncouth", yes) with colleagues.)
The problem is, I still lack the (lady) killer instinct. So, I didn't ask for their number.
They did mention, though, and about ten minutes into the conversation, not at the end, that they hit the Comet a lot, so maybe I'll see Emily and Kelly again some time.
I can only hope.
In fact, I have more than hope. I did even better this time than when I chatted away (for only seven or eight minutes, alas) with the Polish au paire duo at Barnes n' Nobley in November '01 prior to seeing Pieces of April. Common language can be a wonder, too.
After viewing the fantastic, mesmerizing, practically-silent film Schultze gets the blues, I proceeded to the Comet Cafe (soon to be closed for renovation, alas) and had a go on the toilet (I even went so far as to deface my first public latrine wall since being in Spain, five years ago, by proclaiming on the wall to my right, "New [Bomb] Nationals 4eva"), followed by reading from my recently-arrived May Atlantic the dispatch from Wm. Langewische (quite possibly my favorite present-day journalist) about his accomodation in Baghdad ("Hotel Baghdad: Fear and Lodging in Iraq").
But, my Coconut Creme double-shot latte and medium-reading could not sustain my interest. Not when I saw two (as they turned out to be) sisters smoking Camel Ultralights and discussing... Lord knows what they were discussing, before I interrupted them, but I conversed with them for a good half-hour, and had them eating from the palm of my hand. (It's a wonder how I can be so... Not civil, nor courtesy, but politic in small group, social setting, while so blackly comic and rude ("not rude as good, but rude as in uncouth", yes) with colleagues.)
The problem is, I still lack the (lady) killer instinct. So, I didn't ask for their number.
They did mention, though, and about ten minutes into the conversation, not at the end, that they hit the Comet a lot, so maybe I'll see Emily and Kelly again some time.
I can only hope.
In fact, I have more than hope. I did even better this time than when I chatted away (for only seven or eight minutes, alas) with the Polish au paire duo at Barnes n' Nobley in November '01 prior to seeing Pieces of April. Common language can be a wonder, too.