It's a cool cloudy morning. I'm waiting for a guy to come and patch the holes in my walls. It's been chaos around here lately as the electricians have run risers through the walls and floors of the house. My neighbors and I are looking forward to the end of this project. We have taken out a loan to do the work. The old gas pipes were springing leaks. We have converted the house to electric.
I live in a hundred year old (plus) brownstone with six or so other people. The building went co op sometime in the ‘60s I think. It’s a rare and precious way to live in this city, but not for everyone. I like old things. I appreciate the beauty of decrepitude. I don't need a gym in the building. I don't need a dishwasher (well…)
Yesterday, I took another old thing, my Martin 00018, to 30th Street Guitars to be restored. After that, it will likely be sold. Unless I have second thoughts and buy it back. The restoration will cost a fortune though. Like most musicians, I don't have a fortune. Not even close.
I met an old friend for coffee yesterday, after I dropped off my guitar. He was 24, and I 34, when we met at a Virgin Music Christmas party and fell in love. He wanted to take a photo, but I wouldn't allow it. We were seeing one another through old eyes, but a photo would have documented my own decrepitude. He's still gorgeous, a beauty. We have been friends for much longer than we were lovers, but the old relationship is always at the bottom of it. For years, he called when he was drunk and said we should have married. Now he is sober. Life is long.
Well, I better get into the shower. The guy will be here soon to patch the holes in the walls.