the upper breast side fireworks eggstravaganza, november 2004

In a perfect example of yin and yang, a thoroughly horrible week was followed by a thoroughly awesome weekend. Even the weather went from cold, rainy, and depressing to warm and clear. In addition to a couple friends from law school, my friend E brought down a giant box of fireworks.



We drank vodka tonics and set them off on my roof. There were little fountain-like ones...



And some that shot up in the air and exploded like standard 4th of July fireworks.



And then there was one that also sounded like real 4th of July fireworks, which apparently pissed off a person in a neighboring high rise. Unfortunately, this person has damn good aim and nearly hit us with an egg.



Slighlty fearing eviction (though at least I'd have gone out with a bang! ha!), I went out with them to a bar in Brooklyn. Upon exiting the subway somewhere near Park Slope, E and I were welcomed to the fair borough by a nice gentleman who brushed past us, ran into the street, pulled down his pants, pointed at his (apparently cold) weenie, and said "Yo, ladies!" We see you, dude. And we are not impressed. Anyway, we finally got our corrupted asses to the bar, where this fine gentleman provided us with many rounds of beer and whiskey. Merci beaucoup, A.



The next day we left the apartment at the brutally early hour of 12:30 to get to a hair appointment. I thought fat ladies would be singing while monkeys flew out of their asses on a cold day in hell before this would happen, but I really, really want to sleep with my hairstylist. He is very hot and very straight and, needless to say, I will be getting my hair cut on a more regular basis even though he's a senior stylist and I really have no business paying someone that much money to play around with my hair (but it feels so good.) I guess it's the girl version of getting a lap dance.

After engaging in blatantly illegal activity and getting egged and flashed, our weekend was already quite full. But it wouldn't ever be complete without a ridiculous, a propos celebrity sighting. Just days after the infamous nip slippage, we saw Tara Reid hunched over in her chair at Cipriani Downtown (surprise surprise) getting a neck massage from some dude in a suit. When we walked by again ten minutes later (because, um, we really had to go back that way) she was still hunched over and getting the shit rubbed out of her neck by a different dude in a suit. I can only imagine what the cause of her neck pain might have been.

Because we were too tired to do anything else, E and I went home and took pictures of ourselves while sitting in our underwear and watching really bad television.



It proved to be good practice for later in the evening as the bar we went to has a photobooth. God bless black and white and shadowy lighting.