Monday, July 19, 2010

A Night in NYC (and How Does Paul McCartney Work His Way into This?)

The other night I took Sean and my mom into New York City. It was Carrie's last night in town before she left for Denver on business (and a chance to reconsider exactly what the bloody hell she is doing with me...just kidding).

On the other hand, she was turning me loose! But then again I had Sean with me the entire yeah. That.


If you weren't around NYC last week, then you probably don't know it was hot. Brutally hot. Probably not the best night to drag the two of them onto an overcrowded Metro North train out of Greenwich, then to the six train to 23rd St. OK, I didn't exactly drag them. As we stepped back into the light at 23rd and Park, the air seemed OK to walk in. Mom was game to try to walk, and so we did...s-l-o-w-l-y. Carrie met us at 3rd Ave and continued at a snails pace (with a stop in the air conditioning of CVS) to regroup. A few minutes later we were at Moe's, the fabulous fast food Mexican joint (or TexMex, or Southwestern...your mileage may vary).

Dinner was good, conversation was fine, and we opted for the bus to get us back to the subway. Carrie and I spent a few moments by ourselves (ah, good ol' Mom thinking there) and she was gone soon after. It seemed like a blur. Mom and Sean went into Madison Square Park, and Sean found a playground in there to get his sweat on. Soon the three of us returned to the subway, for an N train to take us to the Times Square Shuttle, back to Grand Central Terminal, and on our way to Greenwich.

It was Friday in New York. Certainly better than the previous Friday, when I mowed the lawn. Oh baby - can't get more exciting than that! Avoiding heat stroke! YEEEE HAH!


Anyway, it was Friday in New York, and this time it included an eight year-old and his grandmother. Yet in that, taking them out of their natural surroundings of the suburbs, I could watch their reactions to the big city. My mom is old school. You know the type - girls shouldn't show everything the way they do today. Now don't get me wrong, she's not a prude necessarily. Still watching the Friday night girls in their "going out" clothes (aka "clubbing"), I knew there would be a reaction.


Sean was oblivious to all of this, of course, instead rambling on about the joys of public transportation. Mom, on the other hand, just shook her head and commented on the women who "give it all away." I'll grant you, and her - there was one lass walking in front of me in the Times Square station with a ridiculously short skirt on and heels that had to be five inches - easily! I couldn't help but wonder how she was walking.

(Do I like this? Let me put it this way: I like a little tantalizing. I like a stylish woman and such. I like the tease. Short skirt, perhaps a touch above the knee? All for it. Yet there comes a point where it goes over the top and heads towards trouble. This was trouble.)

I promised Mom a blog post would come of it. I hope it makes her, and Carrie, for that matter, proud to know that at the end of the day, I'm still something of a gentleman. Oh I'm still a guy, but there are limits.

Oh, Paul McCartney, you say? Well while sitting in Moe's, one of the worst pieces of music to ever come from Macca's lips, "The Girl is Mine" came on the Muzak (or whatever). Thankfully, I can't blame the writing on Sir Paul; his duet partner Michael Jackson wrote this thing. I remember mocking the spoken verse portion with friends at Mahopac Junior High. Ugh.

This was a low point in Sir Paul's post-Beatles career. Around the same time, Jackson and Macca wrote and recorded "Say Say Say", which had a more tolerable beat but isn't a lot better on the whole.

And please don't get me started on "Ebony and Ivory", Paul's dreadful duet with Stevie Wonder. Stevie! Paging Stevie. Can we get some "Superstition?" "Boogie on Reggae Woman?" "Living in the City?" The late 60's Motown brilliance? Please no "I Just Called to Say I Love You." Please? Find your groove again, dear friend.

McCartney has made plenty of fine solo work ("Live and Let Die", "Jet", "Maybe I'm Amazed") but this was just a terrible stretch of his career. And there, right there in the middle of Moe's on 1st Ave in the greatest city in the world (Ron Burgundy's San Diago a worth contender of course, and I hope to find out for myself in near time), I found myself wondering if I could hold down my Joey Bag of Donuts (it's a burrito). Heading towards a week later, that song, that dog gone terrible song, is still in my head. Sending me spiraling towards a painful end.

There must be a solution. Please help. Fast.

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