Beautiful weekend

Did you ever have a weekend that is just... perfect? I mean, from the time you wake up till the time you lay yourself down to sleep.

Well, I had one of those weekends. Just fun and engaging, and lots of great conversation and interesting people...

Friday night went to the Stack for "one perfectly chilled glass of celebratory wine." Then got to talking to a guy at the bar about music, guitars (he took one look at my little kitten paws and declared that I need to switch from the dreadnought to a parlor and that would solve all of my problems), politics, guns... you name it. Then his wife joined us and the conversation expanded to design and art and commercialism, and gosh, four perfectly chilled glasses of celebratory wine later, I toodled on home. If it's possible to have a crush on a couple, they are good candidates.

Saturday was one of those perfectly clear, warm and un-humid New York City weekend days where you meet up with an old, old friend, go to a movie (even one you dislike, as I disliked this one -- I let myself be talked into the latest "Die Hard" and spent most of the movie thinking to myself, "I'm a Mac!"), stroll through the East Village, eat New York's best burger with onion rings in the backyard of a tiny pub (soon to be reviewed here) served by a sweetheart of a little girl who just celebrated her 21st birthday (bless her widdle heart), then stroll to the Marshall Stack and commune with not just the bartender but the other patrons at the bar.

Gotta tell you, the Marshall Stack is just that kind of place -- you go in, sit down, and end up chatting with everyone around you. I've played drunk Scrabble with friends at the Stack, which says something for the quality of patron. It's not a curved-brim-baseball-cap or tan-in-a-can kind of crowd. Oh my god, dare I say it -- it's full of .... gulp -- GROWNUPS! Matt has somehow created a poseur-free place which, in New York City, and especially on the Lower East Side, is a very, very special thing.

Witnessed a car accident while I was outside smoking, strolled back in, picked up my phone, calmly said to my friend, "I just saw a car accident at Stanton and Orchard," and dialed 911. When I went back inside, one of the girls at the bar admired my poise. "Wow, you were so calm about that." I kinda thought, what else am I supposed to do? Scream and cry? It was a car accident, not a plane flying into a building.

What a nice, nice weekend.

I know the nice days are so boring to read about, but they can't all be about fucking married guys, hating on skinny white chicks on the subway, and ranting about George Bush. And the really nice ones just need to be remarked.