A Weekend of... 08.26.03

Friday night:

Descha’s moving from his apartment, way off in the wilds of Bushwick, where the wild has turned to mild with a hipster infusion and some currently-undetermined factors. I mean, this is the first time I had three kids even walk behind me on the street at night.

This party, of course has surprise guests working their way around the door to the refrigerator to chill their drinks. The best one being our favorite scrappy actor Mike Maronna (whom Little Fuzzy recognized off the bat. And not from the E-trade commercials. Little Fuzzy sounds dirty, doesn’t it? And not like a teddy bear. But I can’t call someone “Sweater”…).

Now here’s the thing—I have seen Mike maybe once in the last 9 years and we’re still cool. He’s still shady. Looking for some hijinks. Trying to get people to do the dance or the bum’s rush. And C-Lo, a.k.a. Lo-Jack, is still the sweetest guy on earth. We rode home in his car like we’ve done since we were 16-17, talking about all the women we did not see, and about how I was holding court about pornography and Kevin Costner.

Saturday Night:

Ray-Ray and I had a semi-brilliant idea. Since we love to watch bad movies together, we could bring other people in on it. It would be fun! And who is more overblown, more cheesy, more ridiculous in his principles and his ego that he would deign to tell us, for example, what post apocalyptic recovery would look like?

Kevin. Kevin Costner. A man whose good looks and wooden acting have achieved him a status where he can make even more ridiculous “epic” (boring) movies with panoramic shots, a hearkening to the age of Westerns and simple ethos and four-hour movies. Those were also the days when movie-making was new and people had no better options. And before we could travel west as readily or watch the history channel, movies were a way of communicating what the world was like (no matter what they left out or romanticized).

Ah, Kevin. You are truly old school.

But we built it and they barely came. Ray Ray, myself, Pixel, and Descha closed it out; Allison, some guys, some girl, Rachel G, and Gully came in the middle. Silver was so kind as to ring the doorbell and then turn around and go home.

For his part, Descha was alternately excited and humorously appalled. The Postman and Waterworld were unbelievable, even with Tom Petty. Notice that the child always asks the important question, like “what is a postman?” We slept on the foldout until we separated into two sleeping patterns and drifted off for four hours.

Sunday:

Marla invites me to meet her parents! With lots of other people of course. My eyes had a hard time adjusting to the light of her apartment, off the white walls and up off the wood, but the parents Spitzer are hilarious. It was all good and there is not so much to say about it. But, Marla, I have no memory of asking you about your friend Marea. I think that is a big whooping lie.

Sunday evening:

“So I wait…” the Afghan Whigs sing. So does Tom Petty. I think Kool G Rap did also.

I was at Pixel’s apartment, talking to her while she showered, waiting for Descha to call her back, to wake up, so we could go to the yearly pool party. See, our friend Steve is the host of a yearly gathering on Shaolin that mostly involves hard fought pool volleyball (PV) games, the thrill of victory, the aches of defeat, the throes of ecstasy one gets when you see your high school crush in a swimsuit…

But I digress. No crushes here. Just pure unadulterated reminiscing. We talked about our boy Dave on Paradise Hotel, since he was the highly competitive runner-up in the PV tourneys, yelling and all spirited. His friend Danny seemed a little out of sorts without him.

Tony cam up from PA. Sam-Buca came from Manhattan and was as daffy as always, but brought a woman with him (will wonders never cease? Hee-hee!). Orna and J-Cap came also. J-Cap mostly sat under a canopy of trees to dry off as the finals went on. Orna, was in the finals with the boys thrashing the water, splashing on myself and Buca’s friend’s friend and AB-Luuv, our favorite DJ on a local rock and roll station.

The best part was, of course, the ride home, slow and filled with Staten Islanders trying to hold the weekend. Descha and I both had some issues and went to the boardwalk to relieve them. The skies were darkening and we were a hppy tipsy, in the glow of people we have not seen in weeks, months, years. People we haven't talked to in however long. And Steve's dad who is a highly affectionate host with a statue of Bacchus on his front lawn-- and a party in the back!

Orna drove us, reveling in the freedom of the windows down and the exuberance up. Descha and I both had some issues and went to the boardwalk to relieve them. We couldn’t figure out which light in the sky was Mars; but we looked at the lights of the Verrazano Bridge with a little wonder of the future.

The sand was soft and that f**ker Descha pasted me twice. Very embarrassing. We clambered into a lifeguard’s chair and realized the “Mars” had moved. In the east was the real red planet twinkling at us, catching our breaths, wondering what would happen if we lived in a community altogether, so we could meet up weekly and discuss the good times.