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Here are some of the many photos in the aforementioned post. These are not very high in quality because I simply snapped a photo of the print itself. No scanners or negatives were involved.

We were cute, no?

In Puerto Rico, at my grandparents’ house. And for entertainment, old photo albums with pictures of us children, and my parents, from years ago. Oh, how young we were.

Before the week starts, why not pop into New York to watch Keith, Chemda, Mo Rocca, Reverend Jen, Myka Fox, Myq Kaplan, and Face Boy perform in The Match Game revisited. Good times.

Afterwards, we went next door for some tomfoolery. The same old gang, you know how it goes.

Client meeting + last-minute interview + new monitor – sleep = a messy room.

But man, I finally have a sweet setup.

It was late, but Kendra dragged me to LITM (sans Pete) to have a drink for Ian’s birthday. You can kinda see his head one of these photos.

Met Charlene at Midsummer Night Swing in Lincoln Center to hear 90s favourites Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. Ended up not dancing at all. And that was ok. Good to catch up with an old Underground Shakespeare pal, even if we did wade a little deep into the depressing subject of healthcare in America.

Sweden is looking more and more attractive by the day.

Is there anything so purely and awesomely bizarre as a true old-fashioned diner? You know, the pre-fab 1930s metal blobs that look like art deco spacecrafts with bad 60s formica. Pastel counters and faux-leather booths are standard, as is the colourful staff. Walk through those doors and suddenly you’re in a time warp — welcome to an by-gone era. And sometimes, you’ll find yourself in Greece, but not this time.

On the way home from Atlantic City, Charlie, Pete, and I desired nothing but a hearty breakfast and bitter coffee. We found it.

None of the staff are pictured here, but I should make a note that just like every diner, there is the one super-hot 19-year-old waitress who you fear will never make it out of that crazy place and in 20, 30, 40 years will become just like the other gals. With that same old haircut and make-up. I always want to grab her by the arm and be like “come with me to New York!”, but of course, I don’t have shit going on here, so unless she feels like doing my laundry, I’m in no position to offer a lifeline. Ok, that was random.

Apparently, there is a provision of the Bro Code that stipulates how we are forbidden from taking photos during a bachelor party. It’s not without good reason — photographs are evidence, and generally we’d like to keep [incriminating] evidence from our wives (and wives-to-be). But I don’t think Jay, or Stephanie, will mind these shots — a collection of candid moments from our hotel stay, dinner, bar hopping, and the transits in between.

But obviously we humble few aren’t the only ones who agree that photography isn’t a good idea — one of the oddly notable spots we visited required everyone to coat-check his phone and/or camera. So whatever happened in those hours is lost to history.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, yes, Atlantic City is in fact a shithole. In the absence of gambling, we may have been in Rahway or Camden, or any other less-than-shiny Jersey town.

Highlights of the night include random schmoozing with other bachelor/ette parties, getting really drunk, laughter at one another’s expenses, Bruce Fulda impressions, pointing out the enduring knuckleheadedness of Pete Connolly, slapping those with unfortunate suntans, eating bad Italian food, and the open expression of totally-hetero, manly, brotherly affection.

[flashvideo file=http://www.divingtank.com/video/2009071801.flv width=300 height=235 /]
A summary of events.

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Making the rounds of the City’s free comedy shows, this time we find our heroes at the Jazz on the Park Hostel, on West 106th St., for a showcase featuring Ray DeVito, Pat Dixon, Micah Sherman, and other characters. Good times.