This is my NYC on 2016

May 28, 2006

Let me tell you my idea of a regular weekend when I get 30:

I am awakened by the turning-on of the television, the NBC on its regular morning weekend news. Its 8:00 AM, and the back of my neck hurts from last Friday night’s huge alcohol splurge. I take a slight glance at the looming light seeping through the closed curtains. I reach for the remote control to turn-off the TV but I had to look for it all over the room, naked. My bed room is a mess of literature books, porn magazines, blueprints from work, used condoms, empty Yellowcab boxes, DVD’s, shirts and unwashed mugs.

Naturally, I draw my curtain open, now with a towel on my waist and a cup of hot cappuccino as I go out to the balcony. I am on the 14th floor of a snobbish condominium, and the view of the New York skyline on a summery Saturday morning is quaint. I read the New York Times and realize it’s already a month-old. I stay 15 minutes more, slowly sipping my coffee as I think about the things that have happened the entire week and the subtly pretty, laid-back weekend ahead.

I am torn between deciding whether to take a walk in the neighborhood to buy some stuff for the empty fridge or to grab my camera and take a day-off to the Central Park with my Pomerian, Bert.

The day is slow so I take a sweater, some sticks of cigarette, then walk a few blocks. Some beer, two boxes of cereals, fresh apples and strawberries, a cartoon of milk, an order of croissant, and some pasta pack my paper bag that I hug on the left while I read the newspaper I am holding on the right: another short walk home, with some intermittent stops for the usual rounds and bends of the neighborhood.

When I arrive, I check my phone and a friend from work asks for a date later tonight at some play or art-gallery opening. I call back to say I’m having a nice weekend for myself, maybe Peter is free so go call Peter. I check some incoming electronic mails, print those coming from Mama and friends back in Manila and God-knows where. For the next or so minutes, I write an entry for my on-line journal, reply some of the e-mails from work, and do a little pornography surfing on the net.

Shortly before lunch, my knapsack is ready with my camera and Bert is jumping excitedly. A short drive with Bert on the front seat ends up in a joy ride all-over cosmopolitan New York. We buy lunch in some drive-thru, then head off for a picnic at the Central Park.

I take some pictures of Bert while he runs after the fake bone I throw. A little chat with some dog owners prancing through the park, and I call it a day for Bert.

We head back home to see a movie or two, unless I don’t get bored and decide to go out at some ordinary diner for a drink and a sandwich. If I don’t and pity my lonely, introvert dog, I would prepare some steamy dinner for him and a nice serving of pasta for me. We would then stay, couched infront of the T.V., a box of popcorn would be cool and muse whether we truly are meant for one another.

When the night proves to be long and thereby empties our stomach, I would order some cheesy pizza and feed Bert with the crust.

Bert curls at one corner and ends another proletarian day.

By midnight, my lights would automatically shut off, signaling the consumption of another day by this highly defunct New Yorker.

The flicker of my television would be the last shreds of life I will remember for the day.