Thursday, July 31, 2003

One More Day In The Month 07.31.03

And I cannot seem to find time to talk about the Harvey Milk school, introduce you to the sports blog, or get rid of this ache and headache. Soon, my pretties, soon.

Wednesday, July 30, 2003

Hot damn, Yo, Here We Go Again. 07.30.03

The one year anniversary of Pico Dulce's blog is upon us. Break out your finest meats and cheeses, fill your face with cake!

Read the August Road Trip.

Read a great day which includes Miss America 2002.

From my old Diaryland site:


I spent the whole night lying. Lying loosely, lying freely, lying guarded, lying on the dance floor, lying about the art. I have never lied that much in my life. And I am not lying about that. I never would ahve thought to tell that many untruths. Not to my father. Not on a resume.

And there was no purpose for it. I had just met these people, designers, artists of some mediocre sort...

But I told people I had never met that I was a financial analyst. I told them I had been published in small obscure magazines. I told them I lived in windy Chicago for a couple of years trying to find myself. I graduated with an architetcure degreee-- so some young lady thinks. I ran track all four years of high school, specializing in hurdles. I had a coke habit in the late '80's. I stopped drinking Budweiser after I quit coke.

All bald-faced lies. Wrapping the body of a boy with a hat pulled down to obscure the eyes. Roaming the party in a black silk blouse of all things. Hey, it looked good. So I started conversations with a woman on line. So I talked to the painter of the pieces with the rectangles.

I was concocting an image and I was barely conscious of it. The paintbrush just started working once they couldn't see my eyes. The paintbrush could not stop with the sweeping strokes, once it was triggered by tales of hip activities and pompous mentions of places where they worked, how this was out of their "circle," how this Leonard Street location was "off the beaten path." I would relate (retaliate?) with a story of my own, each one taking on a monstrous Godzilla life of its own, swinging at power lines and finger-crushing any reality I could tell someone about--

I had become the image of a fast talking New Yorker, embellishments and all.

Tuesday, July 29, 2003

Discount Summary 07.29.03

Since last Wednesday I have:

Had some terrible headaches. They are still around, hanging like the weeping willows or dour cypress trees or heavy fruit.


Threw the party of the month, with Gully. I meant to write a rhyme or ten about the event for Charming Rock Star Dave. But. I am lazy. So it’ll be summed up—

There were lots of people there and lots of people missin’.
A little bit of dancing and hardly nobody dissin’.

That’s crazy corny.

But the music was not loud enough. I roamed the crowd as did Gulshan, making small talk with the men and women making our event a success. A little booty was shaken and some emotions were stirred. There are pictures, yes, and I did wear all white.

Extra specials: Saw a number of people I haven’t seen in months or years (and they were as spectacular as always, (finally) met someone whom I have only talked to via the magic of the internet, watched some good people meet some other good people (but only one scene of flagrant making out on a bench), saw Gulshan’s posse + Soldati’s people (but shied away from the dance-off), and some people I hope to get to know much better in Dave S’ posse.


I played a last minute softball game with my former team, the co-ed Rogues. It was crunkin’ dog! Crushman and Silver were there, along with these kids I played with last year and the year previous: Viral, Doug Double, Kevin, Sally. That’s very exciting to you, isn’t it? I was happy. Like old times. We were joined by Crush’s friend Waka and a “ringer” named Diane who is actually 2.5 apples high.

Unlike old times, though, we whooped up on someone. Yes, they were down an outfielder, and dropped my easy pop-up. But running feels great. Hitting feels great. And man do I love to score. Side note: I adjusted my swing by watching Diane, who had learned to hit just hours before. But she was simple about it, bat around the shoulder, make contact, and she was on base every time.


I am almost done setting up the sports blog. But I am continually distracted by KFC’s commercials for crispy legs and thighs. Mmm, legs and thighs.

Wednesday, July 23, 2003

Mommy, Why is there fighting in Liberia? 07.23.03

from the BBC:

Africa's oldest republic was founded by freed American slaves, but in the past couple of decades it has been in an almost continuous state of civil war. President Charles Taylor himself led an armed rebellion during the 1980s and 1990s, before he won elections in 1997.

He has also been accused of destabilising neighbouring countries, especially Sierra Leone where he was said to have profited massively from supporting rebels operating in diamond mining areas.

However, thanks to the world's largest international peacekeeping operation, the fighting is now over in Sierra Leone, and one of Mr Taylor's main revenue sources has dried up.

Accused of operating like a warlord, he has also alienated political opponents and whole ethnic groups within the country.

Read more:

Also, on the American response, a/k/a, "Go, or else, what?" click here, the Economist.

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

If Only... 07.23.03

I had time, a popular lament. All the changes I could make to my blog, but I cannot make a dent.

Monday, July 21, 2003

The Dawn 07.22.03

Again, among the grime and tossed buckets of water, with sunlight ominous and advancing on the 3rd and 4th stories of aged brick buildings once used as tenements, once over storefronts and not bars. Teams of Latino men wheel shopping carts in metallic silver or plastic blue, decorated with blue and black and happy face bags pulsing with empty soda cans as they walk.

Morning falls on Manhattan. Outside of the Sidewalk Café, Sunday morning. And people on the street have finally stopped making out.

I will miss the two girls in bunny ears vehemently trying to prolong a night’s worth of outdoor kissing. They were very cute and it was very much like watching television. Late night. HBO. Skinimax. You know what I’m talking about.

But I am as always a little ambivalent about “we” when I say things like “we were at Ace Bar/ Karma/ 2A/ Lush Lounge/ the “Deck”/ Mona’s” et cetera; we often includes a set of drunks whose conversation devolves into belligerences and stumbles and all of that malarkey that looks great on television but is less fun when you are repeatedly moving someone out of harm’s way.

That having been said, the drunk tank on legs functioned well this weekend; Nate, JoGo, and Trixie were in town from out west of the NYC, and there was some reminiscence but more forward thinking good times. Simply friends separated by spaces and not time.

Trix with her laughter and how much she is used to dirty boy-talk, JoGo much the same as when I lived with him, and Nate…well, it takes a few hours to get reacclimated to someone who has insults ready to hurl faster than you can load them up

Also, Gully fell asleep again. It was 7 am, Sunday morning, from an all night affair, but still.

Haylz was a bit under the likker but not bad. And Marla… I will be able to tell my kids about the passionate times we shared. Jeanne (a/k/a J-Z?), all button nose adorable, Chris, Chris from the night before (girl, you are a trip), a white female named Khadijah (I’ll never get over that one), et cetera, et cetera.

And at the end of it all, myself-Gully-Nate-Jeanne are up, eating, talking with obvious logic lapses; Nate drinks two espressos to “go to bed;” I don’t make any sense; Jeanne is less rapid fire and simply a smile.

Across the street, one remaining couple lock lips like they can cure their momma’s cancer, like Skylab might fall on them if they stop, like it’ll get them both published in Harper’s and the New York Times.

We collect the tired Gully from his spot, with another sleeping partygoer near his horizontal head. Our waitress is sweet and uniquely pretty, we bid her adieu. I help Gully to his apartment, he gives me a pound, drifts to his couch, drifts to sleep. Sunday morning, 7 am. I collect myself, get the morning newspaper and ride the long way home.

Thursday, July 17, 2003

Comb the Desert! 07.17.03

Try this, nothing perverted will come up.

Thanks to JLF.

Follow the steps below....
1) Go to;

2) type in (but don't hit return): "weapons of mass destruction";

3) Hit the "I'm feeling lucky" button, instead of the normal "Google search" button;

4) read the entire error message carefully

Wednesday, July 16, 2003

A (Vague And) Sensitive Moment 07.16.03

Good to know that when people do not react the way I would like them to, when they obviously have dropped me in importance, I can still do good things for them, introduce them to people, attempt to make them comfortable in places where they will soon move. I wonder if that is because I am a sucker or because I am simply better than them? I’ll take the latter.

Tuesday, July 15, 2003

Welcome to.... 07.14.03

the Charming One, now a weblogging dork at The.Blue.Box like myself and Pixel and New Top and more....

And Haylz is back in limited form at Bangin' Brooklyn.
As Cool Breezes Do. When Tipsy 07.14.03

Someone once asked me what I am like while drunk, knowing that some people are extra belligerent, or extra horny. Apparently I simply cannot help but gush over the stupidest things. Like people’s names. Or the happenstance of people coming together. I think I mean to be belligerent (rragh! You won’t like me when I’m angry!), or horny (baby, I’m ‘bout it ‘bout it), or to lie a lot (my snowy habits in the late ‘70’s almost made me broke). But I end up giving a lot of hugs and talking lovingly about comic books. I have got to correct my drunken tempo.

Also discovered this weekend: I am a little heel. Having decided to continue without a cellular phone (maybe if I had crazy bank and wanted to talk to people all the time, so badly that I simply cannot wait until I get home) also means that when friends are trying to find me, I become like “Waldo.”

Are kids still trying to find Waldo? Damn, they kinda simple these days. Waldo’s right there, dog.

Side note: thanks to A-Lice for introducing myself and Selvadurai to new friends. Thanks to De La Soul and K-Os for making the best of a sh!t Summerstage sound system. Thanks to the weather for cooperating, Desch for his apt, Destruction Sam for driving me home, C-Lo for rocking his fro in the B-K and not the medical wasteland of the B-X, Tyla (sp?) for more good food, Shor-Nuff (plus Maya + Barry) for bringing good folks, Army Julie for looking like Heather #1, Nascar Anna for our little “we should hang out” moment, Fuzzy Sweater and Jeremy, and Rachel and Alissa for indulging my affectionate effusiveness.

I’m sure there is more, but that’s all I can remember. Man did my head hurt on Sunday. No more mint juleps from Tyla.

Friday, July 11, 2003

All Cooled Down 07.11.03

Tonight may have to be a night to relax and not run through Manhattan. Last night I hit Patio's for Po-Po's b-day and that place was stack-up with heads. Too many, too many. But my favorite Hina was in the house and sobered and as adorably lesbian as always. We had our moments. Then I had to step out of that place.

That's all. Time to make some edits and back to Isaac Hayes singing about his chocolate salty balls.

De La Soul is tomorrow. Summerstrage. Hit that s**t like it's your last joint. If you're Ike, hit it like-- nah, I won't go there.

Wednesday, July 09, 2003

All Banged-Out 07.09.03

There will be no more bangbrooklyn web log. A moment of silence, please.

But hopefully Haylz will grace us again in a new form, like Megatron reconstructed into Galvatron; like the princess turning into She-Ra; like ths sprits of evil transforming the decayed form (of the web log. Not Haylz) into... *swelling music, pausing for lightshow* Mumm-Ra, the EVER- LIVIIIIIING!
On my vacation I read…

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky

Field of Schemes: How the Great Stadium Swindle Turns Public Money into Private Profit
by Joanna Cagan, Neil De Mause

Jails, Hospitals, and Hip-Hop + Some People by Danny Hoch

On my vacation I listened to...

More 50 Cent than I thought I could
Joe Budden's Pump It Up
Ludacris' Act the Fool
Beyonce's Crazy In Love
Anything else because these songs are on a four-song rotation

Notes from the Trip That Won’t mean Nothing To You 07.09.03

I. Maryland, you are beautiful. Baltimore, look at all the industrial buildings, ripe for residential playgrounds! I never knew. Except for that a-hole in the Jag. And FedEx Field through the trees. And the Beltway and its traffic patterns. And the little shit in the Jetta. And drawbridges? Come on, dog.

The rap contest is fun, but being that it’s an hour long, being in one hour of DC area traffic is not the coolest thing since successful lawsuits against Big Tobacco. My father is asleep. My brother and I discuss the merits of Olympic Freeze-Tag.

II. Two things I have always wanted to do—set foot in Virginia (preferably on the campus of U. of Virginia but a restaurant just off the interstate will have to do) and make my own city, simply so I can name the streets and make a great radial subway system.

One goal down, one to go.

III. At a rest stop in North Carolina, North Cackalack, NC. Where there is nothing to see but the occasional fam and thickets of pines. And this passing Amish-like woman and her four ultra blonde children. Our AC has decided to lovingly leak onto the carpeting of the passenger side front seat.

“A defect,” my brother says, squeezing out the mat in a dirty cascade next to a white SUV, “we knew that from the last time it got repaired. It might happen again.”

Yeah, but I don’t remember that much fluid, Brother Dulce. The black people have gotten fatter and the white people are rocking crew cuts and tight JC Penney pants. The Asian people ain’t here. And at mile 21 from the South Carolines, I see why Pixel insisted I look out for the South of the Border signs:

Weather Forecast
Chili Today | Hot Tomale


You never Sausage a Place!

G-ddamnit I am fiending for a city.

IV. St Petersburg, Florida, in a descriptive list:

*Mobile home parks
+Used car dealerships
+The reddened man walking on the inside shoulder of a boulevard, over a bridge
+Pawn shops
+Truck parts for sale
+Coin laundry
+Low-price, low-lying motels, with a coat of southern grime
+Strip joints
+Ladies drink Free
+Car audio installed for you
+Payday loans
+Kyle, a v. serious Kirby Puckett look with the phone to his ear doing his quick bail-bonding
+We offer to buy ugly homes/ "Never Too Ugly"
+A man with four folding chairs at the end of Rte 19/ 34th Street.

V. No longer caught in expectations, now caught in the rain, watching it fall over a barn, over farmland in southwest Florida. Eating fried chicken and the lightning is close, close enough that one hit leaves a spark outside of our barn.
And the power goes with the flash.

Farther away, in this second rainstorm of the afternoon, lightning strikes ground and I can imagine it coursing through to the earth.

And there is Papa Dulce, cussin’ up a storm.

VI. Night. 4th of July. While Soldati is enjoying the bright lights and communal sweat of the NYC fireworks shows, I am alone, watching these exploding balloons in two towns, one to my distant front, one to my distant left, wishing slightly for the NYC show and the stars and happy faces that are conjured over the East River. But I look up in the waning light and look at the stars sparkling behind a striated sky. I wonder how the Seminole tribes got around, myself.

I hear a rustle in the grasses later, as I am realizing that no amount of repellant will scare off these bird-sized insects. The sound is quiet and it is late and I forget that I am in the country.

Until I see two pairs of bright yellow eyes curiously approaching. At least it wasn’t some Aryan Nation kids all hopped up on Lee Greenwood, Fox News, and fireworks. Just curious dogs with silent steps, bright eyes, that come around all the time.

Of course, I am afraid of dogs.

And I won’t lie, I yelled for my daddy.

VII. There is a lot to say about Papa and Brother Dulce from my personal book of coping. Things like how important it is to remember that there are expectations and reality and the two often do not meet. That sometimes expectations need to be adjusted. That laying blame is generally useless, that it is important to move on and come up with a set of next steps. But I ain’t saying anything.

VIII. And the trip back is long and winding and fraught with f**king morons cutting through traffic, curling in front of you, watching accidents on the other side and backing up seven miles of traffic. But at the end of the day, you’re home. And there ain’t no more bugs.

Saturday, July 05, 2003

Hello! This is not Pico. This is Pico's friend, Soldati. Surprise! I feel a little goofy writing a blog, especially as a guest blogger on someone else's site. It's kind of like a territorial pissing, as it were. I mean, what IS this blog phenomenon? It was nice for Pico to offer to ravage my blog cherry, it's flattering, because I enjoy Spicysweet's observations immensely, but this small town girl usually reserves her sometimes freaky, self-indulgent world view for the comfortable binded journal she buys from the discount shelves at Barnes and Noble (Yes, the huge bookstore conglomerate I feel guilty for buying from, but my corner bookstore doesn't carry discount journals!). BUT this is a challenge, and with honor, I accept. Thanks, Dulce.

Let's talk fireworks. . . Aren't they beautiful? I never grow tired of exploding mushrooms in the sky. To people who grew up in New York, seeing the colors obstructing the Manhattan Skyline must seem redundant, but to little old me, it's magical; Beer/mojito/margarita goggles help too, and 100 degrees with 80% humidity, seem to add to the acidic charm of psychadellic wonderment.

Where I come from, Idaho, land of wide-open ranges, the Arian Nation, NRA proponants, Republicans, Mormons, and a few freaks like me and my friends, the 4th of July is a BIG deal! Why, you ask? Because of the pomp and circumstance, and the naive assumption that we are the "last, true Americans." It's true! Ever since I can remember, we have had the "Melaleuca Freedom Celebration." Melaleuca is this company that makes binaca like products (y'all know what binaca is, right?) Anyway, thousands of white people converge on Idaho Falls, Idaho (preferably around the falls, by the virtuous Mormon Temple). Droves of young and old couples, with lots of expendable income, come riding in on their motor cycles, clad in Abercrombie and Sears florescent moo-moos (Is that how you spell moo-moo?) No, no Hell's Angels there! Just people who think it's cool to own a honda-cycle with compartments attached to its sides!

They park and, like lemmings, "gather at the river." Then, it begins. What you ask? Why. .. the "Melaleuca Freedom Celebration Tribute to America Music," of course! You can buy it at any gas station or arts and crafts store North of Salt Lake and South of Spokane, and you best be sure that you have the most updated version, or you will REALLY be embarrassed if they happen to change a track or add an extended dance mix of "God Bless the USA," but you still have Travis Tritt's version from two years ago! But, no worries, they pump it out over loud speakers that rupture spleens, so you WILL get your dose of patriotism, Goddammit! Oh, excuse the curse. . .

But. . . then you lay back on the cool, dank grass, in the arms of the man you love, or the friend you just want to hold onto, and watch as this brilliance unfolds in the sky. Then you look around at the thousands of others captivated by the magic, flashes of light divulging their features. Some are crying, some are smiling, ALL are singing along with the words. Mothers and fathers rest their children on their shoulders, they giggle only the giggles that children can giggle. And all of a sudden, the "Melaleuca Freedom Celebration" doesn't seem so silly anymore, and you buy the tape and secretly play it when you're miles away from home.

Needlesstosay, the 4th of July, with all of its familiar spectacle, sarcasm aside, is pretty magical. We are allowed to be distracted for a while. . .

Thursday, July 03, 2003

Florida. 07.03.03

I cannot even explain where I am going. But it involves the swamp. Ladies, don't miss me too much. Fellas, don't get crazy out your minds. I will be back. Expect guest blogging.

Wednesday, July 02, 2003

Shorts (Because I ain’t posted no kind of love in a while) 07.02.03

* I am overjoyed because that lemon the Mets traded for from Cleveland has been traded to the White Sox. I specifically mean Robbie Alomar and that duck will probably hit .300 in the Windy City. But at least he’s not booting balls and nonchalantly hitting .260 at Shea.

*I had this whole thing about rap music and why I do kind of hate it—having to do it how people take it seriously, like rap can cure cancer, narrow economic inequalities, send people to Pluto, and bring back your saintly great-Grandmother. I don’t remember the whole argument and even though I could recreate it, that would be a long post. I reserve it for a later date. And I think I wrote some of it in an email to Dia L.

*But I will say that while rap music is fun and a reflection of our times, the interests that put out the music pander to the violence and rebellion side of culture—which always sells. It’s okay to take it seriously. But it is sad to know that some people have internalized this as a way of life, with nothing and no one to counter the fallacies of respect and revenge, along with the fallacies of how one can improve one’s bank account.

*Additionally, it is really annoying to hear your campers have this interchange:
-What’s your name?
-What you represent?
Five times in four minutes.

*Camp De Fambul was v. good. My boys were chill and mostly behaved, posturing as 16-18 yr olds will. They had a good time. There was Harlem Shaking and discussions on leadership; Talks about bigotry and basketball; and they all switched gear daily, so four kids wore the Atlanta Hawks cap, they switched the “Original Celtics” jerseys, et cetera. Now, some of the girls done lost they minds and got into a claw fight (with no Vaseline?); and we had a couple of boys who were… “energetic.”

The best was Crystal and her Yonkers girls. They do not have roots in Sierra Leone or western Africa, like most of the kids from the camp, but they came just the same. Crystal is 14, and kind of mature and smart. And a little bizarre; a bunch of us took a walk where she kept talking. She started with how the castle on Manhattanville’s campus looked like a Scooby-Doo setting, and then broke down all the parts of that; continued into A & E shows about the macabre and death.

Of course me and Sammy loved her. She was hilarious. Apparently she gets along with kids too—she has her little posse and the boys love her. Crystal smiled incessantly, told bad jokes, dragged people out on the dance floor… jockeyed for attention… was working hard on her British accent and asking Selvadurai to speak, so she could imitate his.

*I got the pics back from the Chicago wedding and I looked back in my blog to try and remember everyone’s name. But when I returned from Chicago I was tired and had nothing more to say. So I didn’t chronicle it. Which sucks because I have a picture of the very beautiful B-ball Jamie (I think), along with pics from me-J.Hayes-Nate from US Cellular Field a/k/a US Cell Block as the natives call it, and shots of Malfait in Indian garb on the horse, shots of old friends Walnut and Joshu, and shots of Jessie Lynn and Feiser.

So I will tell a story, a month and a half late. Read on.
Stories of Chicago, the Weekend of 17-May 07.02.03

Malfait’s wedding was beautiful, stunning; Priti was as beautiful as always. We drank, we ate Indian food, we were having a party, y’all.

Now, B-ball Jamie, I met at the reception talking about the Midwest and sports. Specifically, how the WU women’s team whooped up on Knox College, where she played forward or center. Yes, she is like 6-feet tall. And really disarmingly pretty and smart and at med school with Priti. She is also married to guy whose name might be Jared. I don’t know, he is big, I don’t care, he’s a dude. I’m straight up with it. He was nice.

Anyway, the reception is ending. I call for a party in the room next door to mine—Ali and Feiser were loking to sleep. Perlick and myself were looking to keep our drunk up. The next door is Tamin, who is always game to keep going.

So I’m like who wants to go to the Jewel (grocery store) next door?

No response.

So I’m like who wants to go to the Jewel next door?

I get Glazer. An exuberant young fellow who works some people’s nerves. He’s one of those guys who you think cannot be genuine. It’s the voice that sounds like he is trying to sell you advertising, or the skinny guy selling you financial services. But he and I go to the Jewel—

And realize we’re in Skokie Illinois. They don’t sell beer after midnight. Glazer of course starts to haggle, and argue. He offers the checkout guy $30 for the case “I know you’ve got in the car,” as Glazer puts it. Glazer is in a blue suit with a purple shirt and a purple tie, I am wearing tan and white, we look like such drunken interlopers.

And that’s okay, because we’re drunken interlopers running and yelling across a parking lot in a Skokie strip mall, across from the hotel, cursing this bum-f**k town, wondering how we ever survived our four-year exile to the Midwest the first time around.

And we’re the drunken interlopers who are schmoozing with the front-desk guy and calling for a cab in the middle of the night to take us to some drinking.

Our driver’s name was Alex. In that 30 minutes or so, we learned he was originally from St. Petersburg, Russia, and had lived in the states for 5 years and enjoyed it.

What took us a half hour, and $25 dollars?

We had no idea where we were going. One CVS and two 7-Eleven’s later we are at this restaurant that we figure must sell loose beers. Except it’s a Mexican place, run by, I am pretty sure, Mexicans. I don’t know, I am ignorant and I didn’t ask. What I do know is that I thought I was having a conversation with the waitress but really, we didn’t understand each other a lick. I’d had a lot to drink and was empowered by having the schmoozing Glazer next to me.

Luckily, the brown skinned cowboy stepped in, unbidden, and translated. It took me a minute to figure out what was happening. They didn’t have any beer. I thanked the cowboy, Glazer was frustrated.

One important, forgotten detail; in the cab, waiting for us, were B-ball Jamie and Nebraska Scott (I think that was his name). We were rousing people in the lobby to go with us. Jamie’s husband wasn’t so happy but she and I had spent the past hour and a half conversing so I asked her to come along. Scott, I think, I met when he and Malfait’s friends came from Nebraska to our WILD festival sophomore year; I kept falling over them on the floor that time, and it pissed me off.

So we go back to the car. Alex points out a bar across the way—he’s having a good time with us, I think, and we’re asking questions and just having a good wholesome All-American let’s get drunk time. We are looping back to the CVS, across the parking lot from the bar. Scott and I go in and drop some coin on loose beers, placed in a cardboard box. Around us are what look like Northwestern students or high schoolers, I’m not sure. They are loud and they make me feel old, so we take our booty back to the car.

And I turn to Jamie, long legs hanging out of the car, peeking out of her black dress, and I’m like, “where is that f**king Glazer?”

The sight of him busting tail from the CVS like he done stole something from Joseph Stalin’s porn collection was a sight to behold. Glazer is a slim guy but everyone who has met him simply cannot imagine him running. He is all arms and legs and just looks silly. I’m used to him stationary, drinking everything in sight. I busted out laughing.

“I had to get barbecue chips,” he huffs, “for Anne.” (For those in the know, yes, Anne, Sapna, and Jen and the “Krypies,” Fein, Edlevi, Flem, Tamin, Luke, and Larry were at the wedding.)

In the car, we’re finding our way back at top speeds on empty road, just headlights on lanes of asphalt. I actually turned to Jamie and told her I wanted to clone her and bring her back to NYC with me. I’d had a lot to drink. If I didn’t mention that.

But the interlopers returned with beer; Jamie was returned to her husband; Malfait made me do shots of Maker’s; we got kicked out of the room for being too loud; I slept in my own room and had a vicious vicious hangover. I couldn’t eat tacos until 6 pm, and that’s why I came to the Chi. We did have a great moment the next AM at the IHOP, the WU kids from the wedding and Feiser—who had Luke staring at her ass the whole reception long. But he was sobering now and not being creepy, and we went our separate ways with well-wishes and smiles, as Priti begins her residency and her marriage to Malfait.