03.12.23
Michael, Henry, Josh, Kyle, Shelby, and I went to brunch in Chelsea and saw Cocaine Bear together. I’ve had a cold all week and have canceled almost all of my plans, but I rallied for this, diligently covering my coughs and assuring everyone it wasn’t anything dire (I got tested for the many diseases I could have, but I think I just don’t really remember how to have a cold).
To gather six adults to the same location at the same time is no small feat, but it’s easier when everyone wants to be there. I pitched this idea long before the movie came out — it’s weeks in the making. We all ordered different food at the restaurant and almost all ordered different cocktails (Shelby and I both got blood orange mimosas. Duh, feminism). We laughed a lot and caught up. The boys in this group of friends have known each other for upwards of ten years, and that’s a type of friendship I like to be around: very lived in, longstanding. It’s a joy to witness, and, by some grace of God, participate in as a supporting character who was introduced in the fifth season. Henry, Shelby, and Kyle all do Jell-O shots off renge spoons to top off the meal (Henry only sort of accidentally tossed his across the room before it made it to his mouth).
We walked north to 34th Street from Worthwild and seated ourselves for Cocaine Bear, which, unsurprisingly, was absurd. I lost it at the end when Keri Russell apologized to her daughter (The Florida Project breakout Brooklynn Prince) for inflicting her boyfriend on her too soon, a resolution that was set up at the beginning of the movie via a two-line exchange I had completely forgotten in the last ridiculous ninety minutes. It was so silly and fun.
We left the theater and all peeled off at different points on 34th Street. Since I’ve been sick and couch-ridden for the past few days, I opt to walk up one stop further on my train line to get some steps in. I sent a voice memo to Saraphina on the street, since she saw Cocaine Bear the week previous and had diligently shielded me from any spoilers. There’s little to discuss outside of, “That was so crazy!” but I still, obviously, have to send it.
I stand on a corner somewhere in the 30s on 7th Avenue and wait for the light. Waiting to cross the intersection from the other side is a pedicab, one of the ones with big speakers that play really loud. This one is playing “The Final Countdown,” and the pedaler (?) was very into it. Bopping his head, very earnest. I bopped with him. I walk up and back over and grab the A train at 42nd Street. It’s running local. I don’t really care.
The woman sitting next to me on the train is definitely very annoyed that I am coughing here and there, despite the fact that I’m wearing a KN95 mask and am actively covering my mouth and turning away from her. She is annoying me with her huffiness, but then “Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)” by Bruce Springsteen comes up on my playlist, and I turn on my noise cancelling and forget she’s there.
I don’t usually use the noice cancelling function on my AirPods in public because, you know, safety. I can hear my dad saying, “Keep your wits about you,” every time I hear the PLUNG that signifies that noise cancelling has been engaged. But sometimes songs like “Rosalita” pop up, and I want to give them their due. Even if it means I would have no idea some kind of emergency or danger was occurring in my immediate vicinity. But what a way to go, because God, this song rips. It’s so goddamn good. I want everyone to play this song at their wedding. It is the funnest fucking song.
