Postcard to A Lost Weekend V. 05.13.03

Haylz, Marla, Gully. I know you might think that I missed our tentative pre-partying appointment because I thought putting Gully and Haylz together creates a chaotic environment wherein stars collapse in upon themselves, where pigs fly helicopters, where leprechauns demand their f*cking pot o’ gold as you're strolling through the projects.

But really, I was lazy and tired and went to uphold a promise to Anna who does not yet have a nickname. There was a gathering of NYU MBA’s at a bar whose name is of little consequence. There were shiny buttoned-down shirts, and low lights, and couches. Like so many other bars.

In the bar, there was Anna, some lame kids, and I thought long and hard about lying my way through the whole evening, because most interesting of all was the Mavericks/ Kings basketball game.

Gully knows, Gully knows about the occasional propensity for lying. You’re at a party, and some over-pompous ass is off and running about his or her cocaine use, or their art, or what they used to do back before the Lower East Side became gentrified, et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera.

And you start to think, I can’t listen to any more of this. And you also think, but I would love to invent some tales and see if this blowhard is listening as you embellish your age, your experience, your travel, your bisexual experiences while you were high in Aspen…

The point of this all is that I played it straight. I meant to lie. I had accents at the ready. But then, I was confronted with some guy named Chris and then I was talking to the two women he came with. I think he helped them pick out their clothes. Or helped them shop for their matching sandals.

A perfect opportunity to lie, I know! And I found myself having a long-ish conversation with one of them—Danielle, perhaps?—and enjoying it. I must have been tired.

So, while you were working on your consumption, I:
*hung out with Anna,
*walked by a kid from my university (who informed me that my old DJ partner’s getting married in a few months),
*drank some more,
*dared a guy not to jump down onto the refrigerator truck directly below the balcony,
*chatted with some kids from our rival high school,
*and ran into another kid from the HS.

How was your weekend, Bangin’? Holler At Me.