New York: my future sister-in-law's bachelorette party. We headed up early on Friday afternoon (the Friday of the protests--I ditched work that day. Fuck if a bunch of no-Friday-classes-having college students was going to fuck up my New York groove) sailed through the Lincoln tunnel in 3 1/2 hours and checked into what I am now convinced is the best hotel in Manhattan: full kitchen, 2 double bedded bedroom, living room, bath. Full suite for $166 a night. 39th and 3rd surrounded by more bars than we knew what to do with. The Bruce Springsteen fan who fell in love with me bought the six of us three rounds of shots. Saturday I flexed my mad bargaining skills, while we walked what probably added up to about five miles of shopping, ending up at Ground Zero. Maybe because I smelled the smoking Pentagon as fighter jets and helicopters screamed overhead, the impact of the place wasn't as crushing as I thought it might be. The part that really turned my stomach were the vendors lining every inch of the sidewalk selling Ground Zero t-shirts and shit. It was revolting.
Saturday night we went to a restaurant called Mangia e Bevi for dinner, where they pulled us up out of our chairs every five minutes or so to make us shake tambourines to dance music. Then it was off to Puppetry of the Penis (after a quick Christopher Moltisanti sighting) for a show of some genital origami. Two naked men (mit shoes) on stage doing tricks with their cocknballs. Perfect. And you'd think they would hide out and sneak out the back door after the show, but sure as hell, our clothed entertainers streamed out a few minutes after we did. The bride invited them to come drinking with us, and when they declined, she asked if they had washed their hands after the show. Sunday, we threw a mini-surprise shower for her, kicked around a flea market in the Upper East Side, and headed home, not of course without being nearly killed on the Baltimore/Washington Parkway.
Tuesday, Mickey and I met up with ccjohn at the Big Hunt in Dupont Circle. The night flew by in a fury of excited chatter, and I'm looking forward to hanging out with him again. I have to hand it to ya, John, you made DC look so much artsier than I have ever seen it.
Wednesday night we went to the Crystal City Sports Pub to meet up with one of my brother's fraternity brothers who was in town for the night, Thursday the shit hit the fan at work. I'm surprised I was able to stand up for Friday night.
Which, of course, was the Rolling Stones show. I'll say it right now: those guys will be going to heaven. Hell is the absence of the Rolling Stones.
My mom called me the following day and said "they have got to be the biggest anti-drug commercial going" I disagreed, saying that they've got to be the biggest pro-drug commercial going. There's no sixty-year-old men who can move like that. Sure Keith Richards looks like a cigar store Indian, but how many 60-year-olds can play rock and or roll for over two hours, running back and forth from the stage in the end zone to the stage on the fifty yard line cranking out musical staples nearly twice as old as I am and even treating us to a little bit of the The Love Train. It felt like a rite of passage.
Saturday, I didn't think I was going to get my second wind blowing, but I managed to pull it together for a night at the Cowboy and the Drafthouse with Bob, Andy, HM and my brother. Sunday I ditched one responsibility in order to satisfy another, and undertook the daunting task of cleaning up my one-bedroom sty.
Now after a long and emotionally draining day at work, some very tasty kebabs and naan, and a trip to a suburban grocery store (mmm...suburban produce) I'm up past my bedtime catching up. As tired as I am, I'm relieved. I couldn't have this hanging over my head forever.