so I've been spending way too much time in ikea of late.
why?
because the bastard is not the sort of man who buys his furniture from raymore and flanigans.
so shut up.
ikea is a far cry from hand me downs and cardboard boxes.
and bedsides, the boy is coming in for the summer.
I need my home to look proper so he doesn't ask questions like, "hey dad, why the hell do you have such crap furniture in such a swanky apartment?"
actually hell and swanky are a far cry from the boy's vocabulary.
and he's a great kid. he'd just ask if we could go to 7-11 and then when I have to break the bad news to him that there isn't one in long island city, he'll just beat me with a crowbar.
anyways, while I was there, I almost careened my daughters carriage (yeah I push the carriage…wanna fight about it?) into this little blond kid who was doing circles around a support beam.
and then I saw his dad.
and his dad shared a studio with me in college.
his dad used to be my business partner.
his dad was the best man at my first wedding.
and his dad was there at ground zero of the start of my career which almost never happened.
we had some awkward small talk. I met his kids. his wife politely smiled and we went our separate ways.
and I was bummed.
I miss being able to throw a few drinks back and discuss Modigliani with people.
my art school education is languishing these days.
and I wouldn't mind being able to talk shit about it again one day.
maybe not in ikea. maybe in some crap bar that exists in the back of my mind from 15 years ago.
hrm. the other guy I split the studio with lives in Howard beach. I should go find his ass and chat about the finer points of how we ended up where we ended up.
but then again, you can't go back in time, can you?
—the bastard
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