So, is it wierd that it only takes two and a half days of laying around, reading books, tanning and napping before I feel like I'm going absolutely fucking insane? I feel like I could run a marathon or drink for days, and am liable to do either at this point. Glad I didn't come down here for an entire week, I'd probably have gotten myself arrested in town by now.
I'm going to take a break from the philosophizing for an entry, and start the story of last weekend and the concert I went to by myself. I would have told it real time, or right after, but shit, I didn't have a funny little log like this to write in.
So I'd had about 15 people over to my place Friday night, bunch of folks I met on the street outside the bar, which is damn near outside my place on the outskirts of Chinatown. I woke up cursed that the stupid clock had only changed an hour or two, slid to the fridge, grabbed a beer and banged on my roommates door--you up you lazy fuck? When have you ever been up before me? Leave me alone, I'm sick and the place stinks, who the fuck were those people? Haven't a clue, to be honest...you're still going to the show with me, right? we leave in three hours. Drop dead. This may be difficult, I think to myself, but am not particularly opposed to making the pilgrimage solo. So three hours and more beers later, I've got on two pairs of jeans cause ones torn so badly, and I stumble more than slide back over to his room and bang on the door again...Hey fuckstick, time to go, you ready? I'll meet you there, he moans. Not likely, I mutter and walk down the stairs to the weird little Chinese shop accross the street cause I can't find my goddamned sunglasses--if one of those random deadbeats took them last night, well, I guess it's my fault but that's piss poor form, eh?
So the stupid F train has decided not to run the proper direction today and I end up in Brooklyn, which isn't too bad because that station was behaving and I could pick up the train northwardish from there,...

So, is it wierd that it only takes two and a half days of laying around, reading books, tanning and napping before I feel like I'm going absolutely fucking insane? I feel like I could run a marathon or drink for days, and am liable to do either at this point. Glad I didn't come down here for an entire week, I'd probably have gotten myself arrested in town by now.
I'm going to take a break from the philosophizing for an entry, and start the story of last weekend and the concert I went to by myself. I would have told it real time, or right after, but shit, I didn't have a funny little log like this to write in.
So I'd had about 15 people over to my place Friday night, bunch of folks I met on the street outside the bar, which is damn near outside my place on the outskirts of Chinatown. I woke up cursed that the stupid clock had only changed an hour or two, slid to the fridge, grabbed a beer and banged on my roommates door--you up you lazy fuck? When have you ever been up before me? Leave me alone, I'm sick and the place stinks, who the fuck were those people? Haven't a clue, to be honest...you're still going to the show with me, right? we leave in three hours. Drop dead. This may be difficult, I think to myself, but am not particularly opposed to making the pilgrimage solo. So three hours and more beers later, I've got on two pairs of jeans cause ones torn so badly, and I stumble more than slide back over to his room and bang on the door again...Hey fuckstick, time to go, you ready? I'll meet you there, he moans. Not likely, I mutter and walk down the stairs to the weird little Chinese shop accross the street cause I can't find my goddamned sunglasses--if one of those random deadbeats took them last night, well, I guess it's my fault but that's piss poor form, eh?
So the stupid F train has decided not to run the proper direction today and I end up in Brooklyn, which isn't too bad because that station was behaving and I could pick up the train northwardish from there, but the detour was troublesome...not so much that I need to get to the show so quickly but every moment of this trip is a moment before I can get to the show and get a goddamned beer. This could end badly.
Apparently a transfer in NYC means you have to walk three hot, stinky, appallingly chipper and busy blocks, and as I'm stumbling from 63rd to 59th or some other ungodly distance on the suffocating upper east I run into this kid from work and his girl who look like they belong on the upper east side but live in the village. So I have to explain why it's 3pm and I'm drunk, why my shirt says "I'm going to be a poppa" which is funny because it was my dad's back in 78 before he had me and he's gotta be proud of me wearing it now. Also, why I have on bug glasses that look like they're either a 50s female movie star's, which they might well be given the funny little shop I bought them in but are more likely 4 dollar rip offs that girls are supposed to buy. Either way, I look like a bug and these people are holding me up from the walk I wasn't enjoying between subway stops so I tell them to bugger off and I wander to the train. I'm not so sure they were unhappy to see me go.