Oct. 6th, 2005 03:07 pm
Howdy, Neighbour!
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muckefuckAs I was eating noodle soup at Thai Pastry last night, I noted out of the corner of my eye the arrival of two bears. Normally, I'd be sneaking glances, but I wasn't feeling too social--I'd stopped by there for a bowl of hot soup before an early night of reading in bed--and I kinda recognised one of them from Bear Night. Eventually, though, I felt the pull of the dessert counter so I steeled myself for an encountre as I passed their table.
The red-haired bear was, in fact, someone I'd run into a coupla times--perfectly nice guy and all, but nothing more. His dinner partner was familiar, probably from the same gathering. He kinda recognised me, too, and we played a little game of naming bars and occasions until he finally said, "This is going to sound like a long-shot, but do you know someone who lives..." and he named![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monshu's building and floor.
No wonder he looked familiar!
I'm not sure how it happened--perhaps because I'd had my nose in Thomas Mann throughout my meal--but in no time we were discussing literature. Calvino, Borges, Eco, de Bernieres--he loves de Bernieres, too? Oh, you must read Orhan Pamuk! "This oughta raise the level of conversation in elevator!" he commented cheerfully.
He seems a thoroughly decent guy. He's also the owner of a grand piano, a lover of classical, and a native of San Diego (though years in the Little Apple have hardened him to Upper Midwestern winters). In short, a very welcome addition to a floor increasingly dominated by rude Slavs and their hell-spawn. I walked the two of them as far as Big Chicks, refusing their invitations for a quick beer since I knew how easily fifteen minutes there would become an hour-and-a-half. Besides, it'd be much nicer to share a drink with him while I browse his bookshelves or watch him andmonshu chat about music.
The red-haired bear was, in fact, someone I'd run into a coupla times--perfectly nice guy and all, but nothing more. His dinner partner was familiar, probably from the same gathering. He kinda recognised me, too, and we played a little game of naming bars and occasions until he finally said, "This is going to sound like a long-shot, but do you know someone who lives..." and he named
monshu's building and floor.No wonder he looked familiar!
I'm not sure how it happened--perhaps because I'd had my nose in Thomas Mann throughout my meal--but in no time we were discussing literature. Calvino, Borges, Eco, de Bernieres--he loves de Bernieres, too? Oh, you must read Orhan Pamuk! "This oughta raise the level of conversation in elevator!" he commented cheerfully.
He seems a thoroughly decent guy. He's also the owner of a grand piano, a lover of classical, and a native of San Diego (though years in the Little Apple have hardened him to Upper Midwestern winters). In short, a very welcome addition to a floor increasingly dominated by rude Slavs and their hell-spawn. I walked the two of them as far as Big Chicks, refusing their invitations for a quick beer since I knew how easily fifteen minutes there would become an hour-and-a-half. Besides, it'd be much nicer to share a drink with him while I browse his bookshelves or watch him and
monshu chat about music.