Friends & Family

I have enough vodka in me to knock down a buffalo. It’ll be a painful run when I meet my brother in Central Park in six hours. Pickled, pained, or not, I’m one lucky bastard.

I just got in from the late night commute from hell. Which is to say, from Brooklyn. A co-worker’s taking a six month medical leave, so we threw him a bash in Dumbo. I met one of my oldest, sweetest, and truest friends for a drink at Pravda (Lafayette & Houston) first, where I put away a what felt like a bottomless vodka martini. This after watching part eight of Rick Burns’ New York documentary. After working 10+.

Anyway, she and I went to Syracuse together. The intervening ten years since college slips away when we’re together. It’s nice. After years of lobbying her to do so, she moved to the city on Labor Day 2001, just a few days before September 11th. Her birthday is the 12th. All of which sucked. Because adjusting to New York is difficult enough. But she persisted, and is kicking butt in publishing and painting.

So then we burst on the MTV News scene in the managing editor’s Dumbo loft. The place was hoppin’: Prince and Madonna on the stereo, hoopin’ and hollarin’, plenty of Grey Goose. As always, I snapped lotsa’ pics (do have a look). But oy, I gotta’ get some sleep. Six hours goes quickly when one’s liver has to work so hard.

But why do I say I’m lucky? I come home to an inbox full of email from Branson, MI, Albuquerque, NM, Greenwhich, CT, Philadelphia, PA… friends and family. That’s it. That’s all there is. And I’m a lucky bastard to have them in spades.