Intellectual Whore, a.k.a.: Yours Truly

Hello netizens and blogophiles.

I had a naais weekend! Sheesh. It's not everyday one gets an opportunity to go see the men's finals of the US Open hey? Well, What a pity it was a such a walk-over. Hewitt was totally outclassed. Filthy Aussies.

Just before lunch on Saturday we drove down to NYC in a relaxed fashion (well, Gareth drove) and arrived in Queens, NYC in good time. After chilling out for a while we took the subway into town to watch the ladies finals in Rockerfeller center, where they'd rigged up a huge screen on some grass inbetween the skyscrapers. Cool aura! After stretching our backs out on the lawn, we decided to head into Central Park rather. Central Park is uber. It is the peanut in the dreadfully-bad-for-you M&M. On one of the roads cutting through the park, a music tent pumped out beefy tunes faster than an italian sausage machine. This was the cheesy dog, this was the butter on the popcorn. Rollerbladers in their hundreds were jiving and jamming to the beat all having an excellent time, I couldn't help but smile and try and sway too. :)

We didn't venture far into central park, but managed to catch some great blues at this one fountain and stair-case area I've seen in countless movies and Law & Order episodes. (oh, they had a 14 episode L&O marathon last monday, over labo(u)r day.) We headed back into Queens to freshen and dress up to get down to Greenwich Village.

We heard of a kewl bluesy, rockish place with a low cover-charge called the Bitter End, and after negotiating with the maitre'd got in @ $5. The first group were a blues / rock / rap hybrid with good stage presence and poor mixing. Only after 3 Corona's could I actually hear what the lead singer was banging on about: "Scotch!". The second group was as awful as the lead singer slash pianist's sweaty pink shirt. Their cover of The Doobie Brothers - Last Train Running was OK. After some AwEsOmE pizza, we decided to take a cab to Ground Zero to see the great beams of light they'd rigged up for 9/11, I mean, 11/9. About 40 "Space Cannons" per "Tower" all speckled in the night by masses of moths, beams that stretched to heaven itself.

The next morning I was woken to tea prepared by a zesty scottish lass, a room-mate of a John's. Norma's friend and fellow eire, Norma is Gareth Gareth's girlfriend, and Gareth Gareth is Gareth's buddy. :P

After shooting the proverbial breeze with the two room-mates, the other one: Violet, we headed to Gareth Gareth's place where we hooked up for a greasy breakfast and coffee at a place called the Copper Kettle. Damn, it was good :)

We took the subway East into Flushing Meadows and took in the vibe at the Open. After finding our seats and starting to burn in the sun, we milled around waiting for the Men's Final to start. When it did, we were 1 beer under already and having a kewl time. Pity the game was such a white-wash. Six love, Seven Six, Six Love. Thats a numerical representation of a sore ass.

We left NYC at about 9PM, got stuck in traffic outside of Hartford CT, and finally made it home at 1AM.