At lunch time, I went looking for a pet store on West 23rd that sells Mordecai’s preferred brand of food. He’s very discerning. I, on the other hand, am less so.
While I haven’t actually eaten there yet, I’m pretty sure I’ve found my favorite New York restaurant. Just one look at that storefront – margaritas, ice cold beer, burgers, trailer trash mannequins wearing Daisy Mae shorts – and I was smitten. Too cool to experience alone, this one’ll have to wait until Gill returns from Chicago. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.
Just down the block from the Trailer Park Lounge & Grill, I picked up Mordecai’s meal of choice. I’m developing a theory that the owner of the New Jersey Devils is also the owner of the pet supply store. The Devils are the loss leader – go ahead and sign Kovalsuck to a $102 million dollar deal – we’ll make it up on Manhattan kibble. That Lou Lamoriello is a genius.
Which reminds me of a critically important detail from last night’s game: you can’t find a Tim Horton’s anywhere in this town – but you can find one in the cheap seats of the hockey rink on the Jersey side.
After my last meeting of the day, Mordecai and I took the River Walk down to Leroy’s dog park. Seems to be his favourite of late.
We walked home through Greenwich Village. I made some dinner and talked with Jesse on the phone. Wrestled Mordecai for some couch space, and settled in to watch Moneyball. Again.
“We’re all told at some point in time that we can no longer play the children’s game, we just don’t… don’t know when that’s gonna be. Some of us are told at eighteen, some of us are told at forty, but we’re all told.”
The trick of it is not to listen.