Monday, January 27, 2003

Friday 1.27.03

Oh yeah, throw your neighborhood in the air. If you don’t care.” -Ice Cube

--stop one--

Stephanie, and almost Silver, I thank you for karaoke. So silly. So much bad singing. So fun. Gully sang Sinatra’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and a rousing rendition of Barry White’s “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe”; Silver sang Elvis’ “In the Ghetto” (which we missed) and I forget the first song. I sang Madonna’s “Cherish,” Bon Jovi’s “Born to Be My Baby,” and Carly Simon’s “Nobody Does it Better.” I think I sounded best on Cherish. Hard to pretend to be some kind of tough guy singing that song… ah, well, no one would have believed it anyway. So we took our leave, fleet of feet, to the upper east side, then to catch a cab going west to the party party over by the Natural History Museum.

--stop two--

Dear Shevi: I have met your elusive friend Ronit. I thought, perhaps, she didn’t exist. She was all smiles and chattiness. Good times. We were surrounded by a lot of hip guys. Or European guys, I think someone said. But no one had any sort of accent. There were just a lot of… guys. And some fellas with dreds. Gully and I sat in the corner, got our drink on. The Rice-a-Homie rolled up and had a few. Then we bolted to the car; the streets on the Upper West of course were quiet and curling up to sleep, and we were off to the jam in Queens.

--stop three--

Bumping EPMD’s Business as Usual, with Rampage, featuring LL Cool J and some emphatic rhymes from Parrish Smith. Also featuring the young afro-wearing Redman. We had our swagger all set, tight beats reverberating in our heads.

But the jam in Queens was dying down. So was Gully. Propped up on a chair or hoisted on the couch, he was getting his nap on. But I found that little Tulip is just the right size to use as a guitar-- meaning she’s about the same size as a tennis racket. I never would have guessed if I didn’t lift her one-handed. I haven’t seen her in many months. Maybe even a year? But that can’t be right. Ian, who I haven’t seen in probably a year, lost his Jeff Kent porn star moustache, Molly spun more hip hop like a little Queenie, and the remnants of the party danced. The Rice-a-Homie, of course, got his hands on the record Soulflower (Pharcyde); good times.

We dropped our sleeping partner home, I got a ride home, and there was a whole lot of sleeping done after that…

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