Picture it

Sicily, 1952… Okay, not really. It's this past Saturday night. Curly, Musician Friend and I are walking across St. Mark's Place from Grassroots, where we attended Jean's "Crap, I'm turning 25" party. We're headed down to Houston where Curly can hop the F-train back to Brooklyn and then Musician Friend, who is crashing with me, and I will head back to my place.

Musician Friend is complaining about both the rain and the walk, and I am giggling like a maniac, because I am drunk, and calling him a pussy in as many different ways as I think of. I'm also trying to give him my umbrella so he can quit his bellyaching, and doing it in this manner: "Take my umbrella and quit your fucking bellyaching, West Coast pussy."

He then takes said umbrella from my hand and throws it up on the roof of a building we're passing by. I am momentarily rendered speechless, which does not often happen to me. When I regain my composure, I say, "I'd probably be really pissed off right now if that wasn't so completely awesome."