Forever Paisley

Friday night in New York City. Burri directed Barbara and I to The Meatball Shop for dinner. I ordered the naked balls with pesto and a side of spinach. Hands down the best balls I have had in my life. Once the pinot grigio had disappeared from my glass it was off to Cameo where Annie and the Beekeepers put on a kick ass performance. No surprise there. Our final stop Bedford Street, to the home of a fellow Yooper. Michiganders and Aussies united. Mother and son provided musical entertainment. Dawn Dott Dance photos were uncovered. The bathtub in the living remained untouched. When the night started to dwindle, it was off to East Village. I’d be staying with Molly in order to allow Barbara to have the bed to herself. I figured she’d prefer that over snuggling up next to me.

I’ve known Molly since my college days. While my house was a bit off the beat and path, Molly happened to live a stones throw from East Lansing’s finest liquor establishments. And thus her house became, Hotel 409. Through late night shenanigans and mid-day brunch conversations, Molly and I got to know each other pretty quickly. In college she supported my dreams of saving the world. In Seattle I opened her eyes to the world of vinyl and soul. In New York City, we’ve reunited a handful of times. Sometimes our reunions involve picnics and city strolls. Other times bowling alleys and beer. One time body piercings and an emergency room. That one was unfortunate. Regardless of what the adventure entails catching up with Molly is always real, refreshing and well, fucking hilarious. When you put two people together that lack a filter of any sort, it never fails to get interesting.

This morning Molly and I peeled ourselves from bed, ventured to Neptune for a $4.99 brunch and continued to make our way through East Village. We popped in and out of boutique shops. Molly found a seashell that should have been a ring. I found a slip that should have been a skirt. Next, off to the park where we observed strangers and conjured up the stories of their lives. Poor hipster father who lost the love of his life to a banjo playin’ man in San Francisco. My heart goes out to you.

Enough nonsense.  Come 3PM, it was time. Time for me to make an offer that Molly had yet to refuse. Afternoon bloody mary’s. With a 6AM flight on the horizon, I figured that day drinking was the best way to go. Turns out I was right. Drunk men flattered us. Molly got to ride a rollercoaster. I assisted another in discovering the meaning of life. Ashley was appointed babysitter, Burri joined the party a little late. After shoestring fries and a couple more beverages it had come time to say goodbye. Goodbye to the city. Goodbye to my friends. Goodbye to vacation.

Day 9,999. 6AM flight. Always a bad idea.

Cherrettie