shameless loves, by eggboy

things that nick loves
{but really probably shouldn't}

eating the same breakfast every day for three years.
 becoming gluten-free.
 eating a different same breakfast every day for three years.
 eating breakfast for breakfast and lunch and dinner all in the same day.
 going out of my way to find an appropriate use for a semi-colon.
 casio watches, most especially those with the functionality of an abacus.
 twitter strategy sessions.

thank you, nick!
and a very happy no shame november to you!


cheering up the neighborhood

holy buckets, i am lucky.

my entire neighborhood survived sandy with just a few fallen trees and leaves. no power outages, no flooding. everybody is safe. 

stoop's flight has been delayed a million thousand times, which means more culinary creations for me. additionally, her and i are now gilmore girls scholars.

yesterday we ventured out to survey the damage and support local restaurants. we also took our customary two stoops on a stoop photo, only all of the stoops were wet so it was actually a two stoops on the van leeuwen bench photo.



a lobster roll,
a bánh mì truck,
a scotch egg/potsticker lovechild.
a guitar,
a song,
my wildest dreams in pocky. 
dollhouse playing,
secret telling,
cocktails lit on fire.
the kyle,
the micah,
the zaftigs monte cristo.
in one of my favorite places of all,
with some of my favorite people of all,
in boston, we had a ball!

it runs in the family.

1978, southern illinois, by robert m. lightfoot iii. 
{l-r: buffalo, pops, mr. graef, mr. henoch}

pops is in town.

tomorrow night i will see him play my toddlerhood favorite, carmina burana. he flew into the city a few days before the rest of the orchestra so that he could see dog days and romp around the city with me a bit. we've been eating falafel and spending all of his per diem on dark chocolate and designer salt. he's also been yapping my ear off about the state of orchestras in america, to the point where i almost wanted to pull a van gogh last night. but before that could happen we became happily distracted with a few wonderful events:

on our way to see nick's unbelievable/breathtaking/shut-up-i'm-gushing show, we found ourselves on the street in the village that pops occupied when he first moved to new york, when he was just younger than me. he showed me the exact building, on west 4th and bank, and i had been there. three years ago. to the restaurant on the first floor. on a really extremely terrible date.

then, post-nick-show, as we sipped neat drinks and shared a fantastic brussels sprout small plate, a jingle on his phone signaled the receipt of a photo {above} of a face i've so often made, only it was on my dad. there he was, about my age, with his craycray friend buffalo, and mr. flute and mr. oboe.

can we first acknowledge that buffalo in this picture would get along swimmingly in williamsburg circa the present?

and now what am i supposed to say about my dad? would i be friends with him of yore? is he goofier now or was he goofier then? what would happen in the sci-fi version of my past if 17-year-old him rolled out of his west village apartment on that non-descript october night as i headed into the first floor restaurant? would i tell him to be careful with the swab during his first mahler two? would i advise him not to bite into that fuddrucker's hot dog that cost him so many years of dental surgery? maybe i would just compliment him on his glasses and tell him to get a new bow tie.