Are We There Yet?

Have we reached it?
That point, and age, and turn in life
When everyone stops saying hello.

Are we there yet?
Where we say,
Oh, pretty please, I've been so wanting to call you,
and yet don't.

Are we there,
to say, I've been thinking of you?
And to think,
Do I have the time?

Have we reached that point
whereby it doesn't sting anymore
to do things, and think of people
and never let them know, that it is so.

Are we there yet?
Are our senses numb enough
that it doesn't hurt anymore
regardless of how far, how long,
how empty it has been?

Am I alone
waking up and asking
where is everyone
I love?

The All Nighter

It happened again. It''s been years, since it last emerged. Without being forced. No drugs. Just plain company. Good conversation and plenty of, well, beer, and sochu, and beer, and bourbon, and beer and, us. Us is the keyword. It is 6:14 a.m., after all. I had given up. Thought those days would never come back. That glimmer of craziness associated with youth, energy and sense of being invincible. That notion, which I though would disappear forever from life and character. That, which kept us up with conversation and excitement and desire.

In an ordinary night, before April 27, I would be 1.5 packs deep, smoking Luckies like it was my business. But as I wake up from that dream of self destructive behavior, I realize that there are plenty of folk; old, young, mature and immature; like me. Kind of lost, but right at home. I play my Talking Heads records, and we dance. The book I read was in your heart, na na, na na, na na na na nana na! There's more. Tonight, we shared, Burning Down the House and Take Me to The River -- the latter of Southeast Expeditoions inspiration and fame. Memories and people flood back into my life.

There's more. My record player's belt is getting old/loose, and the songs are getting comparatively groovier. So, as I write, my  homage to J.M.C., Don't Worry About the Government, plays. I'm singing at twice the speed the turn table is. David Byrne is going ``take the highway, highway,'' and I'm already at ``don't you worry about me.''

Talking Heads along with the Kill Bill LP rocking Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood: the unending song that A.T. always thought was playing over and over again even during its first 10-minute run at 11th and Ave. B. The Rolling Stones' Exile on Main Street, The Clash's Combat Rock. Earth Wind & Fire playing Serpentine Fire for M.M. and Fantasy to rock my world when I was a pre-teen in Bebek: for a ride in the sky/our ship fantasy. Lou Reed's '80s rendition of Rock N' Roll from the Rock N' Roll Animal LP. Psycho Killer, Burning Down the House and other gems from the usual -- that is Stop Making Sense, the both sentimentally and un-sentimally awesome album of my memories at S.O.'s Polat Residence flat. That was an awkward description but it holds true even at second, third and fourth reading as I sip my Peroni. No cigarettes. Different Life. Same. Awesome. Life.

I didn't imagine this after a long week that started with a 6:45 a.m. wake-up beep, beep of the cursed CrackBerry alarm on a Friday morning. Good meeting at MS. Good, fun job at BN. Covering the loan market is a hell of a challenge. Then again, so is recreating memories of years lived at UVA; solo; with M.O., S.O. and A.T at 11th & B -- also with the occasional C.O.; S.Z. and U.T. at 11th & W4th -- again, with C.O. on the fire escape; solo, again; with grad school buddies M.W.S. and M.J. in D.C.; back in NYC with F.R.F.; and then with E.D. and T.C., back in the East Village. Come to think of it, that, my dears, for all its good and ills, is a harder challenge to convey.

I did get a glimpse of those nights we greeted the sunrise at 11th & B tonight. I thought of J.M.C, J.S. and N.B. Those countless hours of inebriety, reciting Kerouac, poetry, and whatever else we fancied bravely facing the sun over the East River. Tonight, I did have the conversations that do matter, just as then. And I hugged D.L.B. and A.T.B., and I walked D.F.B home to 12th and B, which triggered memories so deep that strolling back home I was at the same level of awareness with a squirrel whose life depends on avoiding yours truly.

I noticed that Boxcar, our last refuge on Ave. B, doesn't serve a nightcap at 6 a.m. I saw the East Village asleep, dead on its drunkenness and senseless money spewing. At this hour, at least. I  saw leaves and pollens populating the cracks between concrete slabs that we call the sidewalk. I walked by the sketchy Turkish/Russian Bath on 10th between 1st and 2nd that would have been the perfect, preemptive cure to the hangover I'm about to experience in T-minus 6-8 hours. I saw a fully tattooed lady aged probably in her 40s with an upside down five-point star on the back of her left shinbone -- that's the bit below the knee, also known as tipia, according to Wikipedia -- and an upright five-point star on her righ-back shinbone. I saw the iron curtains drawn across restaurants, bars, clubs, occasional Delis -- not Sheen Brothers, the reliable deliverer of Bolbic (aka Volvic) waters and Aaamstel Liiites and menthol cigarettes,of course -- and our very own neighborhood bar, Company.

Secretly, I hoped that some midget would jump out of a hole in the wall and  beckon me inside some random after-hours joint. I just finished listening to Side A of Dylan's Street Legal, an album so unlike Bob, so much like New Orleans, and so awesome. Struggling between Pink Floyd -- the standard finish to an evening/early morning at college -- and John Wesley Harding and a live Grateful Dead album. May this be the most difficult decision I make.

Before I brush my rotting teeth, kindly place my head on one of two soft pillows courtesy of M.O., and tuck myself under sheets and S.O.'s decades old ``pike'' -- that awesome summer bed-cover that doesn't exist in the Western World -- I would like to thank the birds chirping outside, the lack of traffic in the East Village that allows me to cross avenues at red-light, the dynamic of this ever changing City that for all its goodness and evil has been a home with, how can I put it, spectacular memories that inspire pontification and writing for over an hour-and-a-half at impossible states of mind and hours. And you, without whom none of these experiences would exist.

I picked Dark Side of the Moon. It's only fitting. At this hour.

Popular in Gybria: Predictions, Local Natives

• In the Music Department, Talking Heads meets Paul Simon's Graceland to hopefully forever kill all Vampire Weekend nonsense. Presenting: Local Natives.

• Two weeks ago, Monday night. A martini, two beers and a couple of capirinhas later, talking soccer and sketching out chances of Turkey making it to the Euro Cup 2012: Check the schedule here, look at this awesome forecast based on worst odds that puts Turkey, errr, 4th with 17 points.

• In the Paying-Catch-Up-With-The-New-Yorker Department, belated humor about the Taliban, hipster edition: Not Your Father's Taliban.
• In the Tipping Is a Town in China Department, finally and American who thinks like a Turk: Hey, Waiter! Just How Much Extra Do You Really Expect?
• Last but not least, The Department of Made-Up-Famous-People-Visiting-a-Coiffeur: Spot the missing letter, window of hairdresser next to Pera in Midtown. (Disclosure: Photo not edited, full window included.)

Weekend Destruction

Started out alright. Had a busy, good day at the HQ, pumping out three solid stories and feeling well-deserving of a martini.

Met J.G. as planned for dinner at L'Artusi, a fine Italian establishment with modern overtones in the W. Village. Thirsty and late due to work, I ordered a vodka martini, up with olives. The bearded bartender that resembled the dude from Zig-Zag cigarette papers was quite the virtuoso with the shaker, making the drink just cold and watered down enough for a smooth sip. The three olives were fat, sublime. So, I had to have a second. Always a tricky proposition for this guy here.

Eventually switching to a white wine -- memory beginning to get clouded here -- we began to enjoy diced, raw fluke with a zesty sauce and a striped sea bass with a hint of Asian hot sauce. OK, fine, Asian is pretty broad, but so are my taste buds. Maybe Vietnamese hints? The appetizers were followed by two pastas: the pizzocheri (something like a vegetarian lasagna with a layer of sharp cheese on top served in a white ceramic bowl) and the tagliatelle with bolognese bianco. Amazing. Of course, J.G. runs PR for the joint, so the chef also kicked in an off-the-menu, third pasta he was working on for us to try. It was a rectangular ravioli with meats, mixing a tad of sour. We approved heartily.

After dinner we were off to the Village Tavern, a serious shithole that can be fun from time to time. Rushing there due to undue bladder pressure, we both flung ourselves to the restroom and emerged much relieved. J.G. was kind enough to treat me to dinner, so, I was buying drinks. Bourbon flowed.

Having forgotten my complete inability to manage bar video games, J.G. proceeded to shoot dear and other assorted animals with a rifle the size of my forearm. I'm not sure I managed to take any animals down, except, maybe, those that were on the ``don't shoot'' list. I constantly found myself disqualified and without any points shortly after beginning to shoot. Needless to say, my three-week army training did not come in handy.

Then we switched to an easier game J.G. had perfected at Lucy's when we were, ehem, kids: golf. (Possibly ``Golden Tee.'') The point is to move a trackball with your fingers/palm, giving it enough torque and direction in an effort to simulate a swing. The ball goes. Somewhere. At this point J.G.'s wife N.G. had also joined us and we had a good three-people game going. I think. At some point, I got super excited about a long shot and gathering speed rammed my palm and thumb full force into the machine, only to get stuck on an edge and never making it to the trackball. The ball didn't moved, my hand still hurts like a motherfucker.

I stumbled home shortly after that and by 11 p.m. or so I was out of battery, in bed.

I don't remember what I did Saturday. Just kidding. I shared a hot capicola, mozzarella and roasted-red-pepper sandwich from Parisi's with C.B. in Nolita. Than we proceeded to talk about a project we're going to launch and did plenty of research. Sparing you details for the time being. We ended up at DBGB for dinner with some more friends and I had one of the best steak frites in a long time. The rest of the evening was pretty low key: art performance at a pop-up clothing store in Nolita, full-blown with live music and a burlesque show. The usual. Here's a highlight from the event:

After we left the shop, we bounced from one fine establishment to another. I ended up with a bandanna around my neck and too many smokes for a night. Yeah, I had been neglecting my no-cigarettes-in-NYC rule since the DC trip, but that came to an end when I couldn't breathe Sunday morning.

So. Sunday. God-awful hangover. Catch up with E.K. who's in town from LA, his brother and and our friend A.A., who, aptly, doesn't drink. It's gorgeous outside so after brunch at Bread we just wandered around SoHo, W. Village and the park wedged between West Side Highway and the Hudson River. Plenty of fresh air, water and other nutrients later, we sent off A.A. to band practice and hunkered down at the Four Faced Liar for some pints. After a couple, I was off to an Oscars Party at M.B.'s house in TriBeCa. What I hoped would be a mellow evening that'd end at 9:30 p.m. turned into one involving mixed vodka drinks, home-brewed ales, Newcastles and Peronis, and, to top it all off, a couple of tumblers of Woodford Reserve. All of this drinking while trying to keep score of bets.

I was home sometime after 1:30 a.m., too drunk and wired to fall asleep. Listening to a new addiction, Local Natives, I tried to focus on an article about Chicago's Mayor Richard M. Daley in the New Yorker (excellent profile, though I was cross-eyed) while lamenting at the havoc I wreaked upon my bedroom over the bender-ous weekend. I took these pictures, and then, content, passed out like a log.

Popular in Gybria: Snow, DC, TCV

This short week threw off our regular schedule. So did the trip to DC, outlined below. Without further ado, here's what's keeping Gybrians happy:

• Last week in NYC, covered in snow, partially. Scenes from the East Village:

View of St. Mark's Church on the Bowery, caddy corner from TEE house, while en route to work.

Alamo (The Cube) the outdoor sculpture by Bernard Rosenthal at Astor Place as photographed on the way back home from work.

• Catching a glimpse of ancestry in the NYT, and laughing, quite hard: ``Those Azeris are sure idiots!'' (I come from Avars, my dad informs me.)
• Dave Grohl + John Paul Jones + Joshua Homme = ass-kicking psychedelic rock meeting indie sounds and making sweet love to blues, then throwing in some punk attitude to mold various generations and killer riffs, presenting: Them Crooked Vultures.

(Click for Web site and a taste.)

• Speaking of bands, the trio came up with  TCV, because everything else was taken: Here's an interesting backgrounder.
• If you thought Quentin Tarantino's Inglorious Basterds lacked in violence, you might like these renditions: Lost Art.
• Apparently, I'm not the only one to think fat sky rats are a menace: Piegon Feeder's Seed Stolen in ``Violent'' Confrontation.
• This doomsday clock tells me I won't live to see 70: RIP, Aug. 8, 2046. And you?
• Mysterious stranger braves snow, runs away with a block of stone under his arm from Church of Scientology's DC compound:

• Jesus makes DC appearance, drinks Bloody Mary's, Beer and smokes a ton, making waiter super happy:

• The Triplets of Brooklyn (with Gay-Man):

A Bounce

It doesn't matter. Regardless of how good people say the service is these days: on schedule, with free Wi-Fi, more legroom, safe. The BoltBus: bright red, slick black and ready for action. Or the MegaBus. Cheap as their cousins from Chinatown and their Hasidic neighbors by Penn Station in NYC. And at the end of the day, the yuppified followers of the original cheap-buses are the same: crazy drivers, unpredictable delays, smelly restrooms, arbitrary stops and infuriating disregard for the rider.

My bounce to DC and back had nothing to do with my desire to test friends' transportation wisdom. I can live without the torment. The purpose: a visit to celebrate the union of comrades from graduate school; and, while in the city I long to be a part of, hit some old spots with some old friends.

Luck was on my side Saturday morning. Made it to my 10:30 a.m. ride just in the nick of time, thanks to my roommate T.C. Or maybe it was my other roommate E.D. who shook me awake. I was happily sleeping through my CrackBerry's alarm in my drunken stupor. Still hadn't packed. Was reeling from a night out with D.U. and college friends, as well as glasses and glasses of Maker's Mark. Was home by... err... 2 a.m.? 3 a.m.?

Anyhow. Slept some on the bus. Read a little What It Takes: The Way to the White House, Richard Ben Cramer's definitive work on the presidential election cycle. (Right, how pertinent.) And after an unexplained 45-minute stop in Maryland, delays due to crap weather and a snow-sieged DC, finally got into town. Seven Advils later, I was still trying to beat my headache and found the solution in a nap at my friend T.H.'s studio, which he kindly let me have over the weekend.

Our evening was mellow. First, pizzas and beers at Pizzeria Paradiso in Georgetown, courtesy of the C.O.'s family, that is, the groom's. Followed by meaningless wandering in the neighborhood in the freezing cold and then a journey to The Pug, an old hangout from when we lived in Capitol Hill NE. Then, sleep, at last.

Sunday morning, which felt every bit like Saturday thanks to our three-day weekend, started with a pleasant brunch with fellow Shearman & Sterling veteran M.G. at Tunnicliff's. Sufficiently merry and dressed in my wedding best, I headed to the ceremony with M.J. The wedding was great, simple, casual, inducing happiness -- plenty of it. And everyone was there! Count on L.N., the pretty bride, to be the connector. DC journos, Medill profs, UVA folk. The wedding started around 3 p.m. and was over sometime around 9 p.m. And off to the bars we were. Again.

The rest of the night involved heated talk of the World Cup (debating who to support, since, well, goddamn Turkey managed to knock itself out); discussing what a prick, albeit a fantastic player, Cristiano Ronaldo is; debating U.S. policy in the Middle East; Muslim perceptions of President Barack Obama; American efforts to engage nations in foreign policy again and other light matters. Turns out bourbon is to U.S. politics what raki is to Turkish politics: a tonic inspiring unparalled insight, feeding unworldly wisdom and bestowing problem-solving capability. (``If only I was in president/prime minister for one year! One year!'')

So, no wonder, the walk home with M.G., who had joined us at the bar, was a bit silly. More on that later. Suffice it to say that I tried to unlock T.H.'s studio door with the building key. For about five minutes. The key wouldn't even go in. I tried nevertheless. Standing in front of Apt. 308, I was convinced the lock had been changed. I was beginning to think that I'd just have to lie down right there. In front of the door. Sleep on the oh-so-soft carpet. Until it occurred to me that the other key, the one I hadn't used to unlock the building door, may work. Miraculously, it did.

Gladly, M.G. and I weren't able to find the $80 bottle of Scotch. Not that T.H. was hiding the booze, quite the contrary, he gave me explicit directions to the bottle. Some god of bourbon must've prevented it.

Monday morning was ripe for a hearty brunch with T.H. and his girlfriend K.C. at The Diner, another favorite in Adams Morgan. After eating and making a brief pit stop at home, we left the studio and walked to between Dupont Circle and Farragut Square, where the couple were to pick up a Zipcar. I continued to H Street, and down towards Chinatown, to board my faithfully late bus and head home. Glad for the short week ahead, getting deeper into my thriller of a non-fiction book and dreaming of... the next bounce.

Popular in Gybria

• Heroes du jour: them Saints. Who dat? From Greeks to Romans to the Sun King, you'll know 'em by their sign: fleur-de-lis.
• A gun smuggler, portrayed so much like Maqroll, Abdul and Ilona, it was hard to not think of his misadvenutes as fiction: The Trafficker. 
• John McPhee shares a very personal tale, hooking readers after a slow start about fishing pickerel. The man's certainly got some sort of tie to the water.
• Thanks to Sam Sifton and Oliver Strand's tips, Gybrians ate quite well this weekend:
• Friday night, Beco lined our bellies with Brazilian black beer Xunga, caipirinhas, a simple and excellent feijoada and a Portuguese sausage called linguica that was finished with cachaca. Yum.
• Saturday for lunch, we indulged in soup dumplings and a braised pork shoulder in brown sauce that dripped off the bone and melted upon contact with your tounge at A Taste of Shanghai in Flushing. Yes, the end of the world.
• Humor found, albeit belatedly: Warning: Don't Read the Warning.
• In the Music Department, a blast to the past. Gybrians are loving: Nirvana Live at Reading.
• In the Because New York Is Awesome Department: A Subway scene.
• Occasion: S.A. and S.K.'s birthday dinner at Tonda in the East Village. End result: Chucks Reunion.

• Awesome add by awesome programmers (Ave. A @ 6th St.):