cold comfort

Twenty-five minutes ago, I was supposed to be meeting Stephanie for drinks, some fifty blocks from here. She’s without her phone, so the best I can do is shout across the Internet, “I’m sorry, Stephanie. I’m just way too phlegmy to come out tonight!”

My right eye is weepy, my nose is Kleenexed raw and I just woke up in a puddle of my own drool. If that ain’t glamorous, I don’t know what is. I have ordered a big bowl of Vietnamese noodle soup and shall be surprised if the delivery boy does not fall head over heels. Some beauty is quite simply, irresistible.

Sniff.

Last night, I took my mucous membranes (are you sufficiently grossed out by all of this snot talk yet?) down to the Lakeside Lounge, to watch the Smith Family ride off into the neon sunset. Had it not been their last show, and had my love for every single one of those fellas (and their respective significant others) not been what it is, I’d have been right where I am now. In bed, hiding out in a pile of wadded tissues and cough-drop wrappers.

But I went. Of course I went. This was my Smith Family. I’d been there for the unforgettable first show, and I’d be there for their last stand — hopped up on double doses of Dayquil if need be.

My mind was swimmy from cold meds and an ill-advised shot of SoCo and lime (or two), so when I first heard Jen’s voice, I thought it was a mistake. But there she was, with Krissa, The Kate and Conrad – all out to catch the last shenanigans of the Smith Family. I responded to Jen’s how are you with “so, so, so glad to see you.” Nothing truer. I was surrounded with dear friends, and cheesy as it may sound, it makes it no less true to say that the audience last night felt like a big old family reunion.

The evening was bittersweet. The music, as always, was rockin’ and had the jam-packed lounge stomping and clapping up to (and right on past, if I remember right) the noise ordinance curfew. But if you hung around for a bit, you noticed the hugs got longer, the mood more somber as musicians huddled around, two-fisting Brooklyn Lager vowing, “This isn’t the end. There’ll be a reunion tour, man.”

A handful of us two-stepped in the glow of the jukebox. The band clown-carred themselves into the photobooth. And eventually, one by one, when the clock started to signal the obscene, early hours of the morning, they wandered off to their separate destinations. A few to Queens, one to the Upper West, and one, eventually off to Minneapolis. Kevin Anthony Smith, I will miss your guts out. You, too Miss Monica. And that’s not just the drugs talking.

C’mere you. I got a snotty kiss with your names all over it.