Here's a story first written last fall for my now-defunct MySpace page. It's worth retelling. And I'm not above brazenly name-dropping over here on Blogger either.
Tank Montreal hit Christopher Street late Sunday afternoon. Ty's was jammed, the Hangar overflowing. But fate pulled me past these old favorites towards the river-end of the street and the Dugout.
Fate, and Lady Luck: There, holding court just outside the bar, were two long-time pals of the American persuasion. I'd known them casually for probably 15 or 20 years during their periodic sojourns in Montreal. Whatever'd happened to them, anyway? It'd been awhile and I never really knew what they got up to outside my city. But it didn't matter: Friendly, familiar faces in a bustling bear bar were life rafts to a socially awkward type like myself.
Personal idiosyncrasies be damned, I grabbed a Rolling Rock, put on my people-person face and swaggered up to me ol' buds and made friendly.
How refreshing to be warmly welcomed by these guys! Already encircled by a phalanx of friends, they'd no reason to pay me any mind. Yet they introduced me around as if I were someone their group needed to know. You'll forgive me for being a Pollyanna (I am Canadian, after all), but I found their hospitality real sweet.
And lo and behold, my Montreal pals of yesteryear were identified to me as the formerly-faceless farmboyz of Connecticut. I'd been following Perge Modo for months without knowing i was already acquainted with its author. What were the chances of that???
Before long we were joined by birthday boy Joe.My.God., whom I recognized immediately and who turns out to be just as engaging as his blog suggests. And then there was Paul - and Mark too. My home computer was springing to life in this grungy West Village bar.
There I was, like Dorothy back in the barnyard after Oz, recognizing the farmhands as characters from her fantastical dream. It didn't matter the bear bloggers were oblivious to the significance of my Dugout visit, just as Hunk, Hickory and Zeke had been dismissive of Dorothy's adventure. I was in a surreal little barnyard of my own.
So, people, do I even need to write it down here?
Tapping together the heels of my ruby red sneakers, I repeated to myself... "There's no place like New York, there's no place like New York". Cue orchestra.
It's interludes like this that keep me going back.