It's Official

I’m officially in New York. Not that I haven’t been here for a while already, but rather, I’m officially here now because I officially have an apartment.

Regardless. Friday night after dinner in my new ues hood, we ventured to the les to The Living Room to see what the scene was. The back room was full of people and, vodka soda in hand, I settled myself in for the act to come. Four guys head to the stage, the cutest one of the bunch sits at the piano and before long I’m tapping my foot, being pushed into by the crowd and wondering why he looks so familiar.

The Boys, my long time friends and Brooklyn hosts, don’t seem quite as taken with this quartet as I am. Their sound is an acquired taste of Billy Joel meets Dave Brubeck meets Tony Bennett, so we leave, much to my chagrin.

“He’s just trying to be Peter Cincotti” I say, rolling my eyes and shrugging on my coat. I myself am a long-time lover of Peter, whose black and white picture from Downbeat Magazine has been above my desk for the past four years. He is a twenty-three year old, newer generation version of Sinatra with great hair, and who am I to resist that? Once outside while we’re figuring out where to go next, my eyes venture to the small black and white chalkboard with the listing of the evenings performers. There scribbled in small yet legible print, is Peter’s name.

Apparently appearances can change after four years, so I go back in to the still crooning Cincotti and listen to the rest of the set and await the chance to meet my future husband.

Afterwards we head to Thor for over-priced drinks and witness how unfabulous the women of Sex and the City would be in reality.

More vodka sodas than I can count later, I head uptown alone to my new home and fall asleep to the sound of the city that never sleeps outside my window and feel like I’m home...officially.