high line quaratine
(Alt text: A small bird with a hot pink fluffy chest.)
Hi from a tiny room on the 35th floor of a NYC hotel near Penn Station.
Yesterday morning in DC I got on a train to NY. As the train pulled into Newark, I got a text from my sister in-law that my oldest nephew’s covid test results had come back – positive.
I thought he had a minor cold.
So instead of Metro North-ing it to a friend’s house, I dragged my suitcase into an Urgent Care clinic for a rapid covid test. They took my name and phone number, told me I was number 43 on the waitlist, and said, “we’ll text you when it’s your turn.”
Then I crossed the street and waited in a surprisingly short line for a PCR test on the corner. They said 2-4 days for the results, but I’m not holding my breath.
And then I checked myself into this hotel, which is surprisingly nice for something a stone’s throw from Penn Station and Madison Square Garden. I was expecting a cardboard tourist roach motel, not all this carefully restored art deco.
Anyway, six hours later I finally got that rapid covid test. The results were negative. Which is great news (and I still haven’t had any symptoms), but now what? It feels too risky to go to my friend’s house. Or return to my brother’s covid crockpot house. Even though the CDC is like, “sure, dude, go for it, we guess, ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ .“
The whole reason I came up here is that I still don’t have an apartment in DC. I’ve found the right building for me (mid-century construction with parquet floors, steps to a Rock Creek Park trailhead, not in a gentrified area, and like a tenth of a mile from a subway station), but the specific units I might want, I can’t get in to see them until probably late next week. Something about cleaning up the blood stains, j/k.
Yesterday was stressful but today I can appreciate that there are far worse places to quarantine. I mean, I am three blocks away from some amazing pizza, and this afternoon I walked the entire High Line, from Hudson Yards all the way down to the Whitney.
On the northern leg of the High Line, they’ve built all these new condos that back right up to the “trail,” so I was literally looking into people’s kitchens.
And then on the walk back, down below in the Meatpacking District, I stopped, like, wait, this block looks familiar. A quick Google search confirmed it. This was where The Cooler used to be. It was a basement nightclub that used to have ska shows, and a former actual meatpacking/cold storage facility, complete with giant scale and carcass hooks along the track above the bar area. Now it’s an unmarked doorway sandwiched between a Patagonia store on the left and an Asics store on the right.
(Alt text: 14th Street unmarked doorway with steps doing down to where a great nightclub used to be.)
I’m also 87% sure I walked by the spot that used to be a club called The Wetlands. Tomorrow I will investigate further. Hashtags skarcheology and I’ll see myself out.
Links
In which the pope can fuck alllllllll the way off. (BBC)
Great story about Dr. Oz, who can also fuck off. (NY Mag)
If you knit, please make these crocodile socks. (Sad and Useless)
WTF, PBR? (Boing Boing)
A kid in the 80s took his Betamax camcorder to punk shows in DC, and someone helped him digitize that mess. (YouTube)
I’ve always wanted a car megaphone. (Mashable)
I hate Fallon with every fiber of my being, and this Chance the Rapper performance was most likely rehearsed, but goddamn, it’s still perfect. (YouTube)
Ginuwine x Succession = genius. (YouTube)