Monday, June 16, 2003

Well, The Thing About This Weekend Is… 06.16.03

A lot of breastesses were grabbed. It was like a theme for the weekend. I couldn’t understand it. Every conversation slid, completely unbidden, into the land of mammary and there I would be, ready to take an adorable picture with my friend on her birthday and she thinks it would be a funnier pic with two hands providing extra lift. Or, bored at a party on a rooftop, we discuss firmness and there I am, going where no Pico has gone before. And thinking, you know what else is grabbable… but then, I didn’t grab no kind of biscuits.

I might have appreciated it more if I was a 16-year old. What am I saying—I have the mind of a 16-yr old, I loved it. Here's a recap. But I forgot to lie, Gully, sorry.

Friday night.

At the heart of the weekend was a day-long jaunt through promises and somewhere in the middle, hanging out with some of those people I hardly seem to see. As always (for the Two-Kay-Trey) I left on Friday evening to the rhythm of rain. I think it was supposed to be a full moon but the only thing full was the pond in the park.

A kindly neighborhood bus driver saw me running to the stop, slowed down, and then punched the gas as I was almost at the designated stop. Huffing, reaching, yelling, “you f**king ASSHOLE!” (I try not to curse at the top of my lungs out in the suburbs. Churchy people always get pissed and think the neighborhood’s slipping to a slum.) The bus right behind had a driver who asked me, “did he just pass you?” And I said, yeah, but he was nice enough to slow down before he did.

It’s all good because Nicky Marie got the same treatment; as she reached the G-train, the conductor gave her the subway Heisman and shut the doors in her face. We’re two peas in a pod, me and my good-natured, well-composed friend. With the booty and the smile.

What else is there to say? Selvadurai and Silver came and saw the same crowd of ass-clowns I did, unwilling to let people through with their Jersey asses and lame button-downs. Silver stayed home, Sammy joined, made fun of my seemingly “lame” friends before she had talked to them. I love that. You can trust someone who never quite mastered the arts of tact and diplomacy. And she was pleasantly surprised, at least by Raycroft because he’s one of the best guys I know.

There was dancing, breastesses, lots of pictures, and as we left in a cab (we only took it to the Bklyn Bridge—it was wall to wall cars, not moving), we got to see many Upper-East Siders/ Jerseyites/ Shipmate-fodder yuppies up against building walls of the closing bars, making out or trying to make out with the lame girls they’d picked up in those glossy nightspots. Trying to nudge their drunk asses home.

Saturday Afternoon.

Selvadurai’s hurting. I don’t have the directions. We’re about to make magic happen by guesswork. We have a meeting for NahWeYone , who holds a yearly camp for kids, focused on refugees/ immigrants from Sierra Leone but with many other kids in the fold from many other places (Africa, the West Indies/ Carribbean, Harlem). We did it last year, thanks to Kelly and then thanks to Selvadurai who passed the info on to me.

And it’s hot, steamy, on the Upper East and we’re late, guessing, calling Alex. Until I guessed right. Or remembered the email right. Either way, I have to say, I am inspired. So inspired I think I volunteered to help out with one too many things! Wait for two weeks, I’ll tell you all about this year’s camp.

Saturday night.

The only things worth talking about here are
1. Good to see Ray-Ray.
2. Amused by the Lynyrd Skynyrd fan Ray-Ray and the poor man's Jude Law lookalike have as a downstairs roommate. More amused that he was hitting on that Rachel girl real hard. Ha, ha!


I love my man Jose Reyes already. Roger Cedeno cannot catch a bouncing ground ball? And the SA Spurs might be nice guys and basketball world champions but that won’t stop me from calling them ass-clowns.


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