July Fourth and Conquer
So there I was last night, following a weekend of drinking and laughter, hustling and/or bustling, laying in bed, my back burnt, my front somehow not even the least bit tanned, snacking on some Rosemary Triscuits (great name for a band), and watching the Macy's fireworks on NBC. At first my attitude was all "Ah, who cares about some stupid, beautiful lights in the sky."
But you know NBC: It's all revelry and patriotism, and the next thing I know, I'm struck with that famous "second wind" I'm always hearing about. I started getting antsy.
Why the fuck was I not out WATCHING FIREWORKS?!?!
Panicking, I called up some friends who I knew were in the area (that area being the island of Manhattan, which lately is the most I can ask for). Trying not to sound too needy, I begged and pleaded with them to come meet me somewhere on the West side for a drink, and perhaps, I don't know, a little bit of revelry.
These are good people, and they agreed. I threw some pancake batter on my face, poured on some clothes, and sped out the door. Fireworks fireworks fireworks!
Sure enough, the plan went awry. Upon exiting the subway, a message: "Michelle! Listen, we're going to drag you to a roof party in Williamsburg. You must come!" Did I have a choice? Do you know how much pancake batter is running for these days?
The next thing I know, there I was, completely sober, surrounded by a gaggle of strung-out, drunk revelers. As if this weren't enough to put me on edge, every now and again, a heroin addict would set off a firecracker, which would speed by my face and pop directly inside my ear. Not wanting to have Jamie Foxx star in my biopic 40 years from now, I had to get out of there.
While one friend stayed to pick up his things, me and another friend (don't you like how anonymous this is all remaining) waited below on the sidewalk, all the while death-bullets-made-of-fire popping over our heads. 9 out of 10 people stop to ask us for a cigarette, of which we were out. Next thing we know, up drives a cab and lets out 3 girls and a guy who looked like extras in Trainspotting 2: Let's Take Another Dip in the Toilet. A girl wearing a white t-shirt as a dress, belted, with cowboy boots slurs to us: "Do either of you have a tampon?" I could see her die-lem: One white t-shirt + no pants + your period = middle school Phys. Ed. nightmare. My friend, good-hearted and kind, gave in, digging around and locating one within seconds. "Oh my god, thank you sooooooo much" the girl slurred. "Do you want moneyyy??" "No, no please don't be silly." "OH." She looked around. "What about some pot?" I clearly hang with the right crowd, as my friend was all "Uhhhh, yeah OK, that seems fair." So there, on Bedford and 7th St., an OB tampon was exchanged for a pinch of marijuana.
Only in Brooklyn, Kids. Only in Brooklyn.
Epilogue: I ended up seeing some poor man's fireworks, having a couple of drinks, and going home feeling less antsy and almost fully revelled.
Epilogue II: By the by, not to talk, but another fantastic birthday gift for me would be Cindy Adams' Epic: "The Gift of Jazzy."
RIP, you cute little fucker, you.
But you know NBC: It's all revelry and patriotism, and the next thing I know, I'm struck with that famous "second wind" I'm always hearing about. I started getting antsy.
Why the fuck was I not out WATCHING FIREWORKS?!?!
Panicking, I called up some friends who I knew were in the area (that area being the island of Manhattan, which lately is the most I can ask for). Trying not to sound too needy, I begged and pleaded with them to come meet me somewhere on the West side for a drink, and perhaps, I don't know, a little bit of revelry.
These are good people, and they agreed. I threw some pancake batter on my face, poured on some clothes, and sped out the door. Fireworks fireworks fireworks!
Sure enough, the plan went awry. Upon exiting the subway, a message: "Michelle! Listen, we're going to drag you to a roof party in Williamsburg. You must come!" Did I have a choice? Do you know how much pancake batter is running for these days?
The next thing I know, there I was, completely sober, surrounded by a gaggle of strung-out, drunk revelers. As if this weren't enough to put me on edge, every now and again, a heroin addict would set off a firecracker, which would speed by my face and pop directly inside my ear. Not wanting to have Jamie Foxx star in my biopic 40 years from now, I had to get out of there.
While one friend stayed to pick up his things, me and another friend (don't you like how anonymous this is all remaining) waited below on the sidewalk, all the while death-bullets-made-of-fire popping over our heads. 9 out of 10 people stop to ask us for a cigarette, of which we were out. Next thing we know, up drives a cab and lets out 3 girls and a guy who looked like extras in Trainspotting 2: Let's Take Another Dip in the Toilet. A girl wearing a white t-shirt as a dress, belted, with cowboy boots slurs to us: "Do either of you have a tampon?" I could see her die-lem: One white t-shirt + no pants + your period = middle school Phys. Ed. nightmare. My friend, good-hearted and kind, gave in, digging around and locating one within seconds. "Oh my god, thank you sooooooo much" the girl slurred. "Do you want moneyyy??" "No, no please don't be silly." "OH." She looked around. "What about some pot?" I clearly hang with the right crowd, as my friend was all "Uhhhh, yeah OK, that seems fair." So there, on Bedford and 7th St., an OB tampon was exchanged for a pinch of marijuana.
Only in Brooklyn, Kids. Only in Brooklyn.
Epilogue: I ended up seeing some poor man's fireworks, having a couple of drinks, and going home feeling less antsy and almost fully revelled.
Epilogue II: By the by, not to talk, but another fantastic birthday gift for me would be Cindy Adams' Epic: "The Gift of Jazzy."
RIP, you cute little fucker, you.
posted by Michelle Collins on
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
