Spanish Flying

I herewith make an announcement: Two bloggers met in the dark reaches of the Lower East Side last night, and the consequences were…bourbon-soaked and hilarious. (But really, did you expect something else?)

My friends, I tell you now the ever-mordant Vex is a flesh-human, with a perfectly Canadian accent, a ready smile and little trace of the misery that permeates his blog. What a fascinating thing, to meet someone you only know in words.

I loved what he said to me in a phone call before we met up:

McBickle: “How do you like my city?”
Vex: “Well, I’ve been here three days, and it’s my city now.”

Yes, exactly. New York is for all of us. And as a coworker just said to me when I asked her if “MonkeyTown” should be one word in her story, “Yeah, that’s Brooklyn for you.

In other news, a colleague recently mentioned something called “Spanish Fly.” A mythical aphrodisiac? Anyone know of this? I’ve been thinking a lot about smells lately—musk, perfumes—the way their smells change on your skin, the way they change you when you wear them, the way they call to mind people from the past, people you do and do not want to recall so distinctly when you smell their scent out of the blue.

Now back to my Vex-induced hangover.

[Technorati tags: Spanish Fly, New York City]