vacation return
And I’m not just talking about the extremely turbulent take-off I experienced yesterday as I left Philly (at this point I’m convinced that because of some loophole US Airways meets only airline standards for Bulgaria, not the US). That was merely the end of thirteen days of east coast-livin’ (and eatin’ and drinkin’ and not really sleepin’).
Really, it’s very difficult for me to write any sort of recap – even one of my horribly disjointed ones – because the trip itself was so disjointed: LA to Philly to NYC to Philly to the NJ shore to Philly to LA; a series of happy hours that turned into nights out, brunches that turned into day (and evening and night) drinking sessions; restless near-sleepless nights in hotels, motels, on friends’ couches and in old bedrooms; pizza and cheesesteaks, Mexican and Thai, pastrami and beef patties. Whirlwind, indeed.
But yet, my trip was a total fucking blast, and it left me convinced more than ever that, as I’m about to turn 30, I’m the luckiest (non-famous and non-millionaire) guy (who’s never had sex with more than one woman at a time) in the world. Here’s my best attempt at a something like a recap.
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I’ve grown to miss Philly so much since my move to the west coast that over the past few months, I’ve seriously contemplated moving back there instead of back to NYC. And really, if my life were a series of visits to the Artful Dodger for drafts of lager, to the Oregon Diner for French onion soup/CCB (depending on the time of day), and to Tony Luke’s for whatever sandwich struck my fancy at that moment (chicken cutlet supreme? roast pork? chicken cheesesteak?), I’d be a very happy person. I’d also be a very fat person, so I don’t think that, in the interest of my health, moving to Philly would be a good idea. So NYC it is.
But still, I’m telling you, Philly is really a lovely city. I know, I know – I’m a homer. But I’m surprised by how much it’s changed over the past five or so years: there are some really nice bars and restaurants that have opened up, and there are certain neighborhoods that are drastically different from how I remember them. And did I mention that I went out for a beer one afternoon and managed to stay out for six and half hours getting bombed, mostly by myself? No? So I guess I didn’t tell you that my bar tab for that afternoon was $38? That is not a typo. When I got the check, I turned it over, half-expecting to read, “Meet me in the alley in five – and leave your gag reflex at the door” on the back. Two days later in NYC, I bought a non-fancy bottle of water and two rolls of toilet paper and it cost me almost $7. Advantage: Philly.
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Part of the reason I thought about moving back to Philly as opposed to NYC is this cost of living, particularly real estate (what? these are problems that should be on a soon-to-be 30 year old’s mind). $300,000 can get you a legit home in Philly; $300,000 can get you a pretty good weekend out in Manhattan. While I hope – nay, expect – the book to sell millions of copies and make me rich (and hard) beyond my wildest dreams, on the off-chance that that doesn’t happen, I’ll never really be able to live, feasibly and long-term, in NYC, since I’m not sure I want to spend the rest of my life spending 65% of my monthly net income on rent. Sure, what I currently do 9-to-5 can provide me with a very good living, but I’ll never make the type of lawyer/banker/doctor money that one needs to make in order to live like I’d like to live in NYC (steaks, Manhattans, cabs everywhere, etc). Having realized this some time ago, I’ve made peace with it.
And then the Fourth of July happened.
I got to NYC on Saturday, the actual 4th. My friend Nicole was apartment-sitting for her aunt and uncle at their place in the West Village (they, like seemingly everyone else in NYC, were out of town for the weekend). Nicole said that I should bring some beers and come over to the roof of their place, where her and our friend Judy were enjoying some drinks.
Well.
Now, I’ve drank on my fair shares of roofs in NYC and usually always have a good time. But these roofs have all been of the no-fuss/we-probably-shouldn’t-be-up-here variety: just some tar, maybe a plastic chair, a radio of some sort, and a couple of friends hanging around, etc. But Nicole’s relative’s roof was like something out of a goddamn movie: plants and perfectly manicured flowers everywhere, lawn furniture that costs more than the furniture I grew up with, and expansive views of the Hudson and, later, the fireworks. Nicole, Judy and I sat on the roof for hours getting bombed and sunburned. Later, we were joined by friends for the fireworks, and ultimately, I ended up dancing at a bar/club (don’t ask, but a half-dozen-plus Bud bombers after several hours in the sun did quite a number on me).
After spending that glorious afternoon and evening on that roof, I made a decision: I want to make money. Like, big-time money. Sitting on a nice roof in the summer, crushing beers, looking at the river and laughing with friends, well, I could get used to that. Wish me luck.
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On Wednesday night, I threw together a happy hour to celebrate my b-day with my NYC friends. I invited a bunch of people, but didn’t know what to expect: we’re talking about a mid-week happy hour in the middle of the summer, so I didn’t know if five people or forty people would show up. I was pleasantly surprised when it turned out to be much closer to the latter and I felt like the belle of the ball all evening long. And, not surprisingly, the happy hour turned into staying out until 3am, hitting Rosario’s just as it closed, and begging Sal to be let me in because “it’s my 30th birthday!” He gave me a free beef pattie and I almost wept. I am 98% certain it will be the best 30th b-day present I will get.
I miss my NYC s.o.b.’s and that city so much. I’m in love. I’m just in love, dammit.
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The next day, likely still drunk, I spent several hours editing the copyedited version of my manuscript (kinda like the “speak now or forever hold your peace” version), hopped a subway to Midtown, walked into the HarperCollins building, and, hungover and unshowered, slapped the manuscript into the hands of my editor’s (incredibly accommodating) assistant and said, “Let’s print the mother fucker.” I felt like the cock of the walk, did I.
(I know I’ve been talking about the book lately, and it won’t even be out until March 2, 2010. However, there’s been a lot of exciting activity around it in the past few weeks, but now it will – and subsequently I will – be quiet for a while. Thank you for understanding.)
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I spent a quick night in Philly before heading down the shore for our 11th annual “Drink Until You Shit!” bar crawl. Oh boy.
I’ll say this right now: aside from the disgraceful performance of my partner David, who was incoherent by the second bar, leaving me, once again, to do ALL of the work (not that I’m bitter or anything), this was the best DUYS ever. I’m serious. I’ve actually blushed at all the positive feedback I’ve gotten from everyone and, even though I’m thinking about a hostile takeover to remove David from being a named partner in next year’s tour, I’m greatly looking forward to it again. Some thoughts:
- Collectively, my friends and family had nine rooms at the unofficial DUYS headquarters, the North Wind Motel. It was amazing. On Friday night, because so many were arriving at different times, we wound up not going out at all and we stayed up until 3am drinking on the deck (we even had pizza delivered, rather than going out). I could not have imagined a better start to the weekend.
- I took a little while to get the tour going. We started at 3pm this year (as opposed to 6pm or 7pm – I forget – in the past) and not a soul showed up until 3:45pm. We wanted to leave Casey’s, the first bar, at 4:45pm, but we were instead there until nearly 6pm, collecting everyone. C’mon, people. Let’s be better at getting the show on the road next year.
From Casey’s it was off to the #1 Tavern, and, after that, things got a little fuzzy. Because of the shirts (which, if you’re my Facebook friend, you can see photos of), we had more stragglers than ever – people were stopping me on the street, buying shirts, taking pictures, and joining the tour on the go. Everyone was very nice. Or maybe I was just really drunk. Whatever.
- As for specifics of the tour, I can’t really tell you too much, as information is still flowing in. I know that there was a push-up contest in Flip-Flop’s, a public urination citation, and numerous make-outs and possible procreations. I can also tell you that unless I hear anything else, my cousin Eddie is in the lead for next year’s captain. The following day after DUYS, young Eddie was riding home with a buddy and thought he couldn’t breathe. They pulled over and called 911 and an ambulance took him off. While none of this is funny, it turns out that Eddie was/is totally fine: he was just extremely hungover and had some sort of hangover-induced anxiety attack, a hangover-induced anxiety attack that will cost my aunt, much to her chagrin, a whole lotta money. Eddie is now the first DUYS alum to be taken to the hospital due to a hangover. Good job, Ed – seems like you had a really good time.
(And don’t be pissed at me, Ed – your sister Lindsay said I could tell this story.)
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On Sunday morning, I was so hungover that I spent a near-record two hours and eighteen minutes in the shower. My buddy BC, with whom I was sharing a room, thought I had died in the tub. Nope. Just recovering.
Later that night, back in Philly, I fell asleep at 10:30pm and woke up at 9:30am the next morning – because my alarm went off. I took the turbulent take-off flight back to LA in the afternoon and last night, I was in bed at 9:30pm and up at 7:30am. Twenty-one glorious hours of sleep in two nights, and I’m almost ready to do it again for Friday’s big 3-0.
(Almost.)
