In Dust We Trust
Last Friday at the Hammerstein Ballroom, as the Chemical Brothers performed with commensurate heart and skill, I wore platforms and flitted around the rickety, uneven, stair-laden haunt with transcendent delight.
Bonus time came when I learned they’d tote their show to MCcarrren Pool on Saturday night, and that I had tickets to that performance as well.
Saturday afternoon, foreseeing that pool paint would make for a slippery, hazardous surface, I made a height sacrifice and tied on Converse low tops.
Immediately upon arriving at the pool I slipped on the first step. I think maybe there was some spilled beer, maybe not.
When you have taken as many dives as I have, you know right away how bad it is.
I was down, in searing pain, but didn’t want to be a buzzkill. My hot escort helped me to my feet.
Gingerly. Slowly. Sexily.
Dust it off.
In dust we trust.
The night was a model of exquisite sensual stimuli.
Exuberance and drugs numbed the pain Saturday night. Sunday I awoke to this monstrosity (right). The medical advice was simple: get an x-ray, stay off it for a week.
Oh, Brooklyn, why must you torture me so?