|
|
|
propaganditunities
Friday, October 5 2018
location: room 311, The Maritime Hotel, Chelsea, Manhattan, New York
This morning Gretchen and I did what we've done before when staying at the Maritime: we had a makeshift breakfast at nearby Chelsea Market, the upscale indoor "mall" in a rough-hewn post-industrial series of interconnected buildings. It had been over five years since I'd last been here, so some things had come and gone. The Italian deli was gone, meaning we couldn't get the focaccia or pickled vegetables we would've had in the past. And the place we'd gone for vegan cream cheese was also gone, so we had to go to a bagel place just for tofu cream cheese. Amy's Bread was still there, as was that coffee place that makes the great soy cappuccinos. Val, the tranny working the front suggested we get oat milk instead, that it worked better as a vegan milk in a cappuccino, so we did that and didn't regret it. She also admitted that she was more of a cow milk girl herself. So, after our appalling carb & gluten-heavy breakfast, Gretchen marched back to the coffee place and told Val to look up feminism and milk production on the web, suggesting that to be a genuine feminist one had to be vegan. It's a fair argument, but might've been too far too fast. "What's your name?" Val wanted to know. "Gretchen."
Gretchen never shies from her propaganda opportunities (propaganditunities). Back in the Maritime's lobby, an out of control young dog was bouncing from one person to the next, which was initially delightful. But on learning that the dog was from a breeder, because the woman who had bought her to serve as her "therapy dog" "service animal" had wanted to be sure the dog would have all the right traits. The irony, of course, was that this purebred service animal with all the right traits was completely out of control. So of course Gretchen gently explained that there are plenty of dogs rotting in shelters who would make great service animals, and that indeed she has one that accompanies her to a bookstore where she works. Gretchen didn't get into the sexual slavery that dog breeding represents, but there are only so many seconds in any given interaction with a stranger.
We checked out of our room and retrieved our Prius from the bowels of the parking structure across 16th Street and then Gretchen got us out of the City. There was some confusion with the GPS, and it made us crazy by sending us briefly in a loop first south then north on I-95. Eventually, though, we made it up to Route 17, and, since we were passing that way, we decided to stop "for just ten minutes" at the Paramus Trader Joe's. We ended up filling two shopping carts and spending well over $400 there. Despite a fairly bad hangover (and digestive issues from all that bread), I managed to drive us home from there. Back at the house, Gretchen timed how long it took us to put away the $400 worth of groceries and was delighted that it only took seven minutes.
My drinking rules say that I can drink if I've spent the night somewhere other than home, so while Gretchen was off at the prison trying to make Kavanaugh's impending success in getting on the Supreme Court (despite credible accusations of sexual predation) into a teachable moment, I drank a few drinks, mostly to make my hangover go away (which it did). My stomach, though, continued to act as weak as Kavanaugh's during beach week, and drinking kratom tea didn't seem to be helping. By the time I went to sleep, I was feeling fairly uncomfortable.
For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?181005 feedback
previous | next |
