Tonight Philip and I went to Nippon on Church for sushi. Our first choice, Warakabune, the sushi-boat place across the street, was closed. The second-choice theme continued as we were brought someone else’s food–which we ate not even noticing the distant similarity to our order until it was taken away by our waitress–and then bumped into Larry B on the way out, whose affections I unsuccessfully solicited about 20 or so years ago. (During my brief single cub-ness last year, he responded enthusiastically to my Bear-Net ad, and I couldn’t resist telling him that he had his chance 20 years ago.) Anyway, chatting with him in front of Nippon, I asked, “Hey Larry, how are you?” and he told me that he had lost his lover. I thought that he was explaining to me why he was standing in front of the restaurant alone, and I asked, like a total idiot, “What do you mean, ‘lost’ your lover?” “Dead. He’s dead.” I was completely mortified that I had conveyed a sense of lightness about a sadness the depth of which I know all too well. Marjorie Wood, stupid, stupid, stupid. He was very sweet about my clumsiness, and seemed to accept my apologies and condolences while eyeing my crotch with that same teasing curiosity of 20 years ago. He said, “I thought of you the other day,” and then couldn’t remember why. “Well, Larry, it was GREAT to see you again.” So I whisked Philip back to my pad for a viewing of Trouble in Paradise, one of my all-time favorite Lubitsch films, but due to a technical glitch with the initials “Big Chrissy,” our second choice, after The Conversation, which we’ve both been keen to revisit.
More later in the week. I grow fatigued.