"so, if you have a sleeping pad or anything like that, you should bring it. alternatively, we can share my bed. it will be cute, and later we can tell our wives about it, and speak with mock derision, careful to hide our true feelings. later still, annie proulx will write a gripping short story about it, transplanting the storyline to the appalachians (for dramatic effect), and ang lee will see the cinematic potential at its heart."
Yes, I just quoted myself. Self-aware literature and meta-commentary are the hallmarks of postmodernism, and if I'm not postmodern, blow me.
Anyway, this weekend was one of those weekends where, Sunday morning around the brunch table, you relate for all your friends (of both the genuine and the Nicole Richie variety) a shot-by-shot recount of the previous night. "Oh, jeez man, I drank so much...Jager at Bar Nine, whiskey sours at Bar None..." This would normally be the beginning of an arduous, poorly-written and alcohol-imbued story, but I have pretensions to a higher calling, and cling delicately to my image of self-imposed maturity. Plus, Josh and I didn't wake up until noon, so frankly there's no breakfast-table bull session to transcribe.
We also took the ferry to Staten Island, which always elicits the question: