In NYC this past weekend to celebrate Mark Lee‘s awesome wedding. I had drinks with Mark and the rest of the party beforehand at the Hudson Hotel, in their Library Bar upstairs. A pool table dominates the center of the room; our party was mostly spread between two corners. While we were greeting Mark and reintroducing ourselves to his bride-to-be, a tight-T-shirted guy with a pool stick shouldered past me and said, “Get the fuck outta here.” I don’t know if that was directed at his opponent – a cross between 70s Woody Allen and 90s Richard Jenkins, in Oxford shirt and gray dress vest – or at Sylvia and I, as we were standing in front of the cue ball. Regardless, we got the fuck outta his way, just in time for him to break so spectacularly badly that the cue ball arced off the table and over the heads of the couple making out on the chaise. The dude then spent ten minutes looking for the ball in the dim, cavernous bar, a goofy grin plastered to his mug.
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The reception was held in the Palm House at the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens – scenic, warm, and plenty of room for a party our size. They went with a live band, which you don’t see much these days, but it was a solid choice. Sylvia and I took notes on passed hors d’oeuvres – mini grilled cheeses for Sylvia, chicken and waffles for me.
With about an hour left to go in the reception, a pair of teenagers wandered in from the Gardens. One of them snagged a glass of water and did her best to mingle. I waved them over. “How’re you doing?” I asked. Good. “You want to get out now?” I asked. Sure. The ejection happened so quickly, and without me even having to get up from my seat, that Sylvia didn’t even recognize what had happened until they’d left. I don’t think of myself as a confrontational guy, and when I psych myself up I’m really not. I’m just glad I’m keeping my eyes open.