A Knife, a Fork, a Bottle and a Cork, That's the Way We Spell New York
So this weekend we made the mistake of trying to engage in outdoor activities, even though we hate being outside and it was hotter than Phil Lesh's skull bong. (We do not fare well in the heat; even though we're just two generations removed from the sun-drenched Mediterranean, where unctuous foreign types regularly bob around in the sea like hairy oil slicks, summer makes us sweat like Pete Townshend watching an episode of Wonderama.) Ignoring the little voice that tells us to
Like everything else we do, this turned out to be a grave mistake.
At some point someone we know pretty well as being reliable when it comes to having access to things that make even Aerosmith cover bands tolerable if not utterly amusing comes by and gives us what he says is “really, really good MDMA.” So yay. But then that same guy comes by maybe a half hour later when things have gotten decidedly wiggy and we are not feeling anything that could even be remotely considered ecstatic, and he goes, whoops I gave you the wrong substance and things are going to get all James Browntown for like the next 6 hours. Which is to say, if you ever wind up doing PCP, try not to do it at a wedding and by mistake.
Some things that you might do in such a scenario include:
* Run through Prospect Park with a one-string guitar serenading people because you are the great God Pan
* Remove your pants (repeatedly) in places where they have rules against that kind of thing
* Wind up in Queens for no reason and forget how to use money
Posting will be light for the rest of the day as we try and reconstitute our shattered psyche. We are seriously like thisclose to seeking out a clergyman. The ox at the end of Apocalypse Now is having a better time.