Trying to catch some extra shuteye for my vodka-fogged brain this morning around 11 am, I drifted into dream-sleep for a few minutes. I was working for an office very much like something Roger Abbott would run. He had some white powder on the desk in front of him, but I knew it wasn’t cocaine.
I had a good friend, female, in the office. Suddenly the name Oswald Mosley came up and she chided me for bringing up such names at the office.
I was listening to Daniel Todman’s Britain’s War, Vol. 1, and Mosley’s name came up once and snuck its way into my dream. I awoke, curious, and backpedaled a few minutes till it came up again. The context was that Mosley was in agreement with Harold Macmillan on some kind of corporativist national economic planning.
Verizon man came around 2. He was surprised at our old “A21” box in the closet. “How many lines do you have here?” Four landlines, formerly, as well as internet/FiOS connection, etc. He took the whole box out. Got the internet back up, and two of the landlines. But my -0209 is not up. Perhaps because that was an add-on, not one of Moki’s original three. Is it avalable on Moki’s desk phone? I wonder.
Yes, it has a dial tone on Moki’s two-line phone. But that seems to be -6301. Can’t dial to -0209 from -4064.
Hilarious set-to on Twitter today. Someone calling him/herself @PianistWriter. But they’re suspended now for accusing everyone of being a transpedo.
Thinking of writing something about Saltburn, made notes at the AC the other day as the first half of the double v martini flashed through me; and want to watch the Truman Capote thing on Hulu.
Flipped through some 1999-2001 diaries this evening. Moki was really a pain in the neck. “You keep fighting me on this,” he said in Spring 2000 when I showed up at the apartment after forgetting my keys when going to Hoboken, after meeting him at J&R on Park Row. So to Hoboken, no keys, back on the PATH and subway. And he’s mad. He starts proposing that he sublet the place for a couple of years. Then tells me he’s going to leave the apartment to me. And I leave and wait on the bench by the elevator and he comes out with a glass of beer in his hand and tells me he loves me. We hug, quickly.
At times he has the clueless audacity to ask if I want to go back to Seattle to be with Laura. As though that could be an option. Meanwhile I distract myself with trips to London, Paris, Devon, Oxford through those years.
I see again that when Pat Thompson from NZ comes to visit, Moki is not only drinking, he’s completely incapacitated. Pat and I cycle around, Manhattan, Hoboken. This is just at the time that I move in with Marian Heller at 928 Hudson.
