Much as I didn't want it to, the weekend came. It was time to face the music and see if some sort of detente could be reached in NeighboRuckus '07. I hemmed and hawed about making the effort, because after all, weren't we at an impasse? Would this discussion bear any more fruit than the previous dozen? And could I possibly parse my words carefully enough so as not to set off FG, who had become so unstable and sleep-deprived from all those noisy mice copulating in the basement?
But then I realized: I had told the planet I was going to do this, and backing out would reduce me to a worldwide welsher/wuss. Was this to be my legacy? Would my boys ever grow up to learn that their dad talked a great game, but deep down he was just a lowdown chickenshit, afraid of a pothead floutist and his tetchy POSSLQ?
So, armed with a perverse surge of blogger probity, I marched downstairs and knocked on their door. After a few minutes it was clear that either 1) they are avid readers of this blog and had flung themselves under the couch to avoid confrontation, or 2) they weren't home. The bullet was dodged, and I didn't hang around to see if anyone was reloading. Because I had a birthday party to get to, and when the birthday boy is an expert foodie, you don't want to be late.
Why? Because just as you tuck into a meal of truffle pizza and prosecco, you might get involved in an incredibly nerdy conversation about continuity issues in the "Return of the Jedi" with a party guest whom you swear you've seen before but can't place. You and he might chatter on for about half an hour over all kinds of inane topics, and you might think to yourself that you've met a cool new friend, and after he leaves you might realize that he's this guy, and holy crap you wish you had known that because you would have hugged him tightly and thanked him for all the glorious potions he's bestowed upon the world.
A few hours later, the birthday boy might suggest that you pair a Brooklyn Chocolate Stout with a wedge of funky blue cheese, and you might try it and decide that's what you want to have every morning for breakfast because it's so ridiculously delicious. Then you might end up at Gramercy Tavern, sipping vintage beers (like this one, which was so good you could pour it over a stack of pancakes) until 2am, when you might finally notice that your table is the only one without chairs piled on it.
I tippled home as satiated and content as I'd felt in a long, long time. If I had encountered the neighbors at that point, I would have thrown my arms around them and offered to cover my entire apartment with Tempur-Pedic foam.
So I guess the moral of this long, rambling adventure of a post is that if some little shard of life is wedging its way under your fingernails, get out there and live a little. It's great for what ails you.