These are the days of our lives

Disclaimer: Guess what, kids? Today Uncle Phil is going to transform into one of those really annoying bloggers that recounts what he did over the course of the previous weekend. So if you hate those guys, or you hate me, or you hate America, I wouldn’t recommend reading this entry. That being said, you shouldn’t hate America, so read on or Kansas won’t be happy.

It’s not easy hanging out with a bunch of rock stars in New York for a weekend, but that’s the punishment I had to endure the last couple days. What follows is an incomplete account of the weekend’s events.

The first such manifestation of downright absurdity came during our bus pit-stop in Delaware (a state whose size was roughly equal to the chip on our bus driver’s shoulder). Aside from the unique opportunity to punish my digestive tract with copious helpings of Roy Rogers’ burgers, those rest stops totally screw with me. It’s like you step into this warped reality where time loses its meaning, and people lose their minds. People wander around shielding their eyes from the assault of neon, stammering into each other, throwing their hard earned money at anything they can shovel down their throats. It’s like riding around on a carrousel that never returns to the same spot. Sinking deeper into oblivion, one of the more resilient members of our battalion managed to alert us to the imminent departure of our bus. Still dazed by the Wonka world, we stumbled outside and ran. The problem was that we ran in the wrong direction. The other problem was that none of use really knew that. So there we were, victims of the Pit-stop-mob-mentality plague, searching frantically for a bus that no longer existed. Meanwhile John, the aforementioned trooper who had developed an impressive immunity to the pernicious pit stop virus, screamed at each of our malfunctioning phones and the bus driver. The impervious bus driver stormed around the circular drive, intent on roaring onward to the Big Apple minus three poor souls. As he rounded the final curve, flames blazing from the back of the angry bus, we performed athletic feats beyond our wildest dreams in an attempt to flag down our only hope of ever leaving Delaware (much love, Lis), meanwhile inventing atleast five epic dance moves! Emotions ran high as anguish turned to hope, hope back to despair, and despair into the elation of resurrection. We made our bus.

That was before New York. Then New York happened. Oh, did it happen.

What’s the first thing that any sane person does as soon as they get to New York?…that’s right, they leave New York and jam over to Jersey City. Being the hipsters that we are, that’s exactly what we did. Not that it’s possible for Jersey City to ever be a let down, but if it was possible, it still wouldn’t have happened. Our buddy Josh, who graciously accommodated a swarm of rabblerousers (quick vote, is that a word?), lives in an apartment right on the edge of the Hudson River overlooking Manhattan. Positioned across from the village, in between the reigning giants of downtown and midtown, we had a commanding view of the best skyline in the world (in my admittedly meager experience). Plus we got to revert back to colle…high sch….juni….um….grade school, and play with suspiciously fun-looking shopping carts. First the shopping carts were empty. Then the shopping carts held gallons of Pabst. Then the shopping carts were empty again. Then the shopping carts held people who held gallons of Pabst in their stomachs. Then they were empty again. Later they held more people with more gallons of more things in their stomachs. Then they were empty again because those people careened head first out of the carts towards certain death. What does it all mean?

At some point we realized that New York City was really close and we should probably go check it out. So we did, apparently. The story goes that we paid due homage to the sacred artists of eighties rock at this ho-down house (according to this review, we only reverted back to college for our entertainment at this point….and it should be noted that the dancing did not suck!) where they beam the decadent eighties video with the correspondingly decadent eighties song all over the walls. So we’re all pretty sure that happened, and we did wake up in Jersey City the next day (some members running on slightly less than the recommended 8 hours).

…and on the second day, God did not rest…

Have you ever had a waiter/waitress do everything possible to talk you out of a dish? This happened to us at this stylin' noodle house we made our way to for breakfast/lunch/happy hour in the city. It just so happened to be the dish I was ready devour. I didn’t mind that she told us it was the most returned dish on the menu. I didn’t mind that she said, “I’m one of only four or five people that like it.” I didn’t mind that she spoke with such graven seriousness, as though there would be legal ramifications if she failed to enlighten us to the pending devastation that this dish might wreak upon our prostrate constitutions. All was well and good until she dropped the S-bomb on us. She actually had the gall to tell us this dish was ‘slimy’. Slimy! Of all the heinous-anus words anyone could ever use to describe an edible dish, I think she mined deepest and found the worst of the worst. It conjured up images of a toad’s slippery skin resting in an algae infested swamp. I had no intention of paying nine dollars to see that transported onto my plate. I politely passed, ordered another dish, and vomited out the window (the vomiting was a bit of a fabrication, although vomiting was never far from anybody’s mind over the course of this meal…for slightly different reasons). Luckily my second choice turned out to be amazing and cheap. Besides the excellent grub for a more-than-reasonable Manhattan price, I’d recommend this place for the funky pictures of noodle art on the wall. I never would have imagined that noodles could decorate a human body in such ways.

Everyone, in varying states of party or ‘slime’ induced nausea, made their way outside and relished a breath of fresh air. Maybe it was that way because Union Square, a nice little mecca of trees and grass lay across the street. Wait, maybe not. Although it is still a mecca of trees and grass, there’s other things to be found. Namely, an outdoor bar in the middle of a public park in the middle of Manhattan. Somebody explain this to me. Everyone felt compelled to research this anomaly and somehow ended up with coronas (one of which was roughly equivalent in cost to my lunch) or bloody mary’s in their hands. Ah, the beauty of nature.

The Fellowship of the Weekend, which was in peril of dissolving, rematerialized at this point stronger than ever. Back to Jersey City, back to bed for some, then the onslaught continued.

Brevity is the soul of wit. I’m a half wit. But I’m trying. So let me summarize the rest as follows… Feeling like we had short changed the Joshua Tree the night before, we mustered up all our energies and laid siege on that bastion of all that is cool once again. We did it right. Oh, did we do it right. And it really happened that night, according to all sources. Realizing that it was only 5 in the morning when we got back to Jersey City, the dance of the deranged continued on couches and in front of windows back in Jersey City. A final stroll along the water’s edge sometime deep in the six o’clock hour, where a small cadre of lunatics toasted mother NYC and all her demons, brought to a close a day to remember. A saffron orange sun, cloaked in the fumes of simmering city haze, rose above the pillars of man’s ingenuity and kissed us goodnight with her first rays of warmth.

Not so early the next day, the morose realization that our time in New Jersey was coming to a premature end began to loom large; therefore, we celebrated that fine state by dining in the finest eating establishment available: the local mall. The end was too painful, and I cannot recount it here. Perhaps with time I will muster up the courage to speak of our parting with New Jersey and all that it encapsulates.

For now, I offer my praise to those who sucked the marrow out of a weekend’s bones and lived to tell the tale.