At 8 am I sat alone on a stool in the Red Lion bar on Bleecker Street. Surrounded by 10 Brits and a full English breakfast, I watched Liverpool's disappointing 1-1 draw against recently promoted (Gary) Sheffield United. Incidentally, there may not be a cooler iota of trivial fun than Liverpool's having two guys on their defensive line with weird double vowels (and sometimes vowels) in the middle of their last names: John Arne Riise and Sammy Hyypia.
At 1 pm I sat amongst friends on a plush couch in a top-floor suite at the Marriott Financial Center on West Street. Surrounded by a stable of fellow groomsmen and a smorgasboard of deli sandwiches and fixins, I watched the Yankums take the third game of the weekend series and fellow Northwestern alum Luke Donald challenge for the PGA championship. Incidentally, I love how all my Yanks fan friends refuse to even taunt our Sawx fan friends. It's the ultimate insult, feeling so bad for a downtrodden franchise that we're not even saying shit. Had the situation been reversed, you know we'd never hear the end of it. We are the Israelis, and Sawx fans are the Palestinians.
At 9 pm I stood at the front of the sickeningly gorgeous Cipriani ballroom on Wall Street. Surrounded by groomsmen and bridesmaids, 320 party guests and a happy couple, I watched my first best friend in the world marry his fine-lookin' ladyfriend. At 2:30 am, the disgustingly awesome all-black, 15-piece soul band concluded the night with a Shout reprise* and absolutely tore the house down. Incidentally, if you're booking yourself a wedding, do not under any circumstances hire white people to entertain the crowd -- a white band can only funk it up as good as a black band on its worst night. (*w/ Superstition teases)
At 4:30 am I sat wastedly in that top-floor Marriott suite on West Street. Surrounded by 20 bleary-eyed half-(formally) dressed revelers, a bathtub full of beers and 10 pizza pies, I watched myself become way too stoned and tequiladrunk to have anything to do with anybody, stumbling over sentences and smiling with one of those evil Chesire Cat grins. Incidentally, the fear of vomiting profusely defeated the promise of exciting one-night coitus, and I'm officially a fucking loser. A loser with a wicked case of the spins.
At 6 am, I fell asleep. Only to have to wake up for the post-wedding brunch. At 10 am. Needless to say, two full wedding weekends in a row -- from rehearsal dinner to brunch -- can make a man get down and pray for a full week off from work. Ohhh, sweet, I'm off this week. Suckers.
Slack Link of the Day: If any random passersby reading this here rag are currently juniors or seniors in college, you should consider writing a killer thesis on Criminal Ramifications of Terrifying Homoeroticism in Eastern Canadian Youth Treatment Facilities, concentrating on the oft-used helicopter maneuver. It'll be more of a scorcher than that one you're planning to write about Sanskrit. Here's your first piece of comedically strange research...
Slack Video of the Day: The Alec Baldwin SNL with the Glengarry Santa's Workshop sketch was re-aired this weekend (although I didn't see it this time around). In honor of one of the more genius and underrated post-12:30 skits in the show's storied history, check out this sweet clip of Baldwin's intense cameo in the original flick: an Oscar-worthy seven minutes.
Slack Song of the Day: If you're not familiar with sometimes Greyboy Allstars keyboardist Robert Walter, you're really missing out on one of the better musicians out there. If you ever see his band or GBA coming to your town, make it your beeswax to be there. From the Robert Walter's 20th Congress New Year's 2001 show, here's Good Times Bad Times, Ain't It Funky Now and Fire Eater.