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A cupboard isn’t full until it’s outfitted with 3 kg of Waitrose Digestives. Thanks Cat!!

Off to watch Big Brother and re-live 2005.

The first order of business on Sunday was to tidy up the house and conceal the craziness of the previous night. I am still amazed how dirty a kitchen can become in just two days. Seriously. Amazed. I mean, how did that black liquid get all over the inside of the freezer?

And lord, so many cans.

Predictably, after two nights of partying (super partying), the gang was pretty knackered. We slept in, and shuffled over to the resort’s Club House for a fancy pants brunch worthy of the whitest of white people, who play golf. ie, not me.

But even in soberness our rabble can have a laugh. The sunglasses may soothe the harshness of a hangover, but can’t mask our affection.

Back on the road for a lovely drive back to Maplewood. My sympathies are for Amie, Allison, and other Canadians who are charged with a 21-hour schlep back to Halifax, Ottawa, and other faraway lands.

Adieu, dear friends, until we meet again.

Oh, and on the way back, I made a wrong turn and found myself in Fawn Lake Forest, the small town where Betty J. and her family have a summer home, where Mike and I visited way back in 1998. Coincidence indeed.

Day two began with that timeless vacation tradition of venturing into town in search of groceries. After fumbling around a bit trying to find our way, we discovered a local supermarket, and bagels were purchased. And of course since everyone is a goddam drunk, we had to find a liquor store. And since Pennsylvania was founded by a bunch of Quakers, we also had to find a beer distributor for folks to buy beer.

Back at the house, on our pleasant little faux-suburban street, we spend the late morning staring and chatting and trying to recover from the previous day. Jeremy and Barry prepared chili and jumbalayaa, respectively, and with our bellies full, we headed over to the main resort.

First stop, the rifle range. Most of us, being city folk, had never fired a gun of any kind. (also, we got lost along the way, another sure sign that urbanites are meant to navigate the dense forests of Pennsylvania) Predictably, handling a .22 calibre rifle isn’t hard — it’s basically only a step up from a paintball gun or bb gun. The gunner, being an active-duty Army sniper, found the whole affair terribly amusing. Keith, an Army veteran had no trouble, once we found a way to cover his left eye, which he can’t close, for some reason. F-Mos, the Harlem native, felt somewhat awkward holding a rifle (as opposed to a handgun), and Chemda got back in touch with her middle-eastern roots, once she started to see that old bolt-action thing as an AK-47.

After shooting, we spent some time driving go-carts. The course was short, and narrow, but we still had fun trying to pass one another and giving the occasional bump. But half the fun was talking shit, really.

As the sun set, it was time for the actual show. Episode 1000 was a bit of a retrospective, with faithful guests chiming in on their experiences, audience members recalling memorable moments, and the odd jokes at my expense (with Keith calling me out on the design of my business cards, among other things).

And to finish, back to the house for another Party Super Party. Suck-and-blow Jell-o shooters are an interesting party tool, I must say. Myq K. passed on early on the couch, and almost nodded off on that ridiculously comfortable arm chair (with Ottoman).

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Scott shooting a rifle, struggling with spent shell casings

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The video can’t show it, but I’m actually a good shot.

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Allison fumbling with same dodgy rifle

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filming while driving, probably not the best idea

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Impromptu ice cream sandwich-eating contest

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It’s not a party until someone appears with a live frog

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Like on previous occasions, I have packed my bags and bid adieu to metro New York to follow my friends Keith and Chemda on the road. This time around, they were commemorating the 1000th episode of their show, Keith and The Girl.

For such an occasion, we assembled at the Woodloch resort outside of Hawley, PA to take in the scenic calm of the Poconos, to relax, sleep, catch up with old friends, and eat some good food.

Oh, that was just me. Everyone else was there to get shit-faced.

First, we met for a rather fancy dinner, followed by a game of Bingo. Then, after being grown-ups for too long, we headed back to the houses for a bit of what’s become known as “Party Super Party!” Aime even convinced me to do a shot of something called a Grasshopper. I think the last time I did a shot it was when Jay’s mum harangued me into trying a Mini Beer. As the video will attest, I don’t really drink.

Shenanigans, as expected.

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The Gunner taunting Aimee during Bingo

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Having way too much fun with a chocolate fondu fountain

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Scott taking a shot. Whoa, really? Yea.

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An another move that could certainly be categorised as “good clean fun”, Bonetti and I stepped out to McCarren Park in Williamsburg for an outdoor viewing of the modern-day classic, Reality Bites, which is celebrating its 15 years! Oddly, most of the themes are universal, although the clothing is fast becoming outdated.

Overall, this was a good time. The hipsters were out in droves, but managed to behave themselves. The only complaint I can muster is that we were pitched on the concrete kickball field, and not any sort of grass surface. Not the most picnicky situation, after all.

Oh, and my favourite line from the movie is definitely “I was really going to be somebody by the time I was 23.”

I don’t look bad in Laura’s glasses, do I?

After years of saying “oh, I should have gone to that”, I actually went. To Lincoln Center, that is, for some outdoor swing dancing and fanfare with live music. Some old faces, many new ones. Who says swing dancing is out of style?

I’ll probably go again later this month, if not this week.

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I imagine it must be very lusty indeed to have a private garden in Jersey City. Impromptu BBQs wouldn’t seem at all out of ordinary. In fact, I’d be grilling every night. The patio is really just an extension of the kitchen, no?

I allowed myself a bit of humour in watching Kendra, Hannah, and Cotton try to light the Grill and get the coals going. Eventually, they got things, um, cooking. Those Ivy League heads are good for something, it seems.

And no, we didn’t start Ali on a life of drinking. I imagine she’ll figure that one out all on her own when she starts Uni in a few months time. We did, however, give her a healthy [over]dose of twentysomething urban depression. I can’t help being a DUPPIE.

Nothing says Independence like an entire pig roasting over hot coals.

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Or maybe it just has to more to do with spending a lovely afternoon with good friends, eating good food, and enjoying the outdoor simpleness of suburban New Jersey. These days, it is much rarer that we assemble at Joaquin’s house, and fittingly we commemorated the 27th anniversary of Joaquin’s birth along with the 233rd anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Red, White, and Blue cake eventually showed itself. As did rice and beans.

So to Messers Jefferson, Adams, Franklin, Hancock, Bartlet, et al., here’s to you.

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Joaquin, my ancient and most noble friend, has found himself part of another up-and-coming indy rock band, Kuroma. First, they opened for old Wesleyan pals MGMT in Prospect Park, and tonight headlined at Piano’s in the Lower East Side. And being the supportive best friend/fake cousin/brother from another mother, I turned out. In spite of smelly hipsters. In spite of crowds. In spite of the general annoying state of the LES. And I’m glad I did, in fact. Their music rocks.

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Next time you come over, bring your stroller. You can park it here.