Allow me to apologize for the mini hiatus that I went on these past few days. I took off from work on Friday, and had a fun-filled weekend packed with assorted activities, and couldn’t really find the time to blog. And by Sunday, I was certainly not in any mental state to blog. But here I am now.
You know, after certain events this weekend, it occurred to me that all the craziest moments in my life always come when I’m drunk. I’m starting to wonder if that might be a coincidence?
Anyway, this weekend, I attended two concerts. The first being in Central Park on Thursday, seeing one of my favorite bands, Wilco.
Whenever I told somebody I’d be seeing this band, I’d say a good four out of five people didn’t even know who they were. This infuriates me because Wilco is one of the best bands currently in existence today. They have been around since 1995 — a decade and a half. That is a long time.
They have eight studio albums, over 100 songs, and not a single one of them isn’t good. They are true musicians and they know how to write a song. If you’re one of the 80% (from my small sample size) that hasn’t heard of them, I highly suggest you get acquainted with them quickly. You can begin by viewing their discography here.
But yeah, the show was excellent, as any show any true musicians would put on. I had never been to a concert in Central Park, and on a cool night like it was Thursday, the setting could have not been more perfect. It was a great concert.
But after the concert was when a few funny/painful incidents occurred.
I ended up at a bar called David Copperfield’s in the Upper East Side. I’m sitting down in a booth enjoying fine food and drinks, reflecting on the great show I just witnessed, when who sits down behind us? Jorge Posada of the New York Yankees.
Now I never have celebrity sightings. Ever. I think the most famous person I’ve ever ran into on the street was a stray cat that I could’ve sworn played Mr. Jinx in Meet the Parents.
So yeah, even though I quickly turned to glance (didn’t want to make it obvious, duh), I was skeptical. I needed confirmation.
He was with a woman — his wife, hopefully, since he is married — so I didn’t want to bother him. But later in the night, when our waitress came by, we asked her if that was Jorge Posada sitting behind us. She said yes. It was confirmed.
So, right before leaving the bar, I approach him and say, “Jorge? (He nodded) I’m a lifelong Mets fan, but I respect you as a player and appreciate everything you’ve done for this city. Best of luck in the postseason.” He shook my hand and said “thank you” and that was that. All in all, a pretty cool experience.
After that, I shared a cab with my friend towards Queens. My plan was to catch a train from the Forest Hills LIRR train station. I saved money on cab fare by sharing a cab, and it would give me a shorter ride home than if I left from Penn Station. It made perfect sense.
However, I didn’t realize how oddly constructed the Forest Hills station was, and upon getting there, I had no idea where to go. I knew I didn’t have much time to catch my train, plus I needed to buy a ticket, so I had to hurry. I asked a pedestrian where the platform was that leads back towards Long Island, and he pointed me in the right direction. As I’m approaching it, I could hear the train coming.
So I ran up the stairs, and I see the train is in sight as I land on the platform. Although you could buy a ticket on the train, it’s more expensive to do so, so I figured I had just enough time to buy a ticket at the machine and still make into the train.
The train stops, and I’m buying my ticket as it sits there with the door open. I’m cursing at the machine to speed up, and finally, my ticket dispenses, so I grab it, and bolt like Reggie Bush taking off from the line of scrimmage towards the train.
As I approach the doors, I’m still running full speed, but I realized that I was indeed going to make it. And then that’s when I completely lost my footing and slipped on the wet platform.
I go flying towards the ground and land shin-first on the exact spot where the platform ends and the train begins (where the gap would have been had there been a gap — the train was extraordinarily close to the platform, thankfully.)
I pretty much literally flew into the train. I ended up landing halfway in, and then had to crawl the rest of the way in before the doors closed on me. For 1:00 a.m., which was the time, the noise was absolutely thunderous. Everyone else was just sitting on the train half asleep, waiting to get home and go to bed. They must have thought I was crazy.
A group of people, about a year or two younger than me, were indeed looking at me like I was insane. But then they noticed that my jean leg was wet with blood. I lifted it up and had a huge gash on my shin, and blood was dripping down it very quickly. They immediately advised me to lie down and keep it elevated while they saught a first aid kit. They were very nice people.
However, apparently LIRR trains do not carry first aid kits. Personally, I think I have legitimate grounds for a lawsuit. I should have neglected to take care proper care of it, and allowed my leg to acquire tetanus. Then I could have sued. I may also have lost my leg if I did that, but at least I’d be rich! Hey, people have sued for much worse.
My phone was dead at the time so I couldn’t take a picture while it was in its worst state, but I did snap one when I got home. Warning: not for the faint of heart.
So yeah. It actually didn’t stop bleeding until today. But I’m all good now. In the end, it’s just another story to tell the grandkids.
On Saturday, I saw my second show of the weekend, seeing a double headliner featuring a band called Wavves, and another band called Fucked Up. Yes, that is what they are called.
Their music is actually not that appealing to the ears. You can’t actually understand the lyrics because the lead singer is screaming the entire time. It’s not something I would ever put on my iTunes, but for a concert, it was awesome. The lead singer was a fat, middle-aged bald dude who takes off his shirt and moshes with the crowd while he sings. Everyone just follows him and shoves each other around.
When this began, I first thought that I would not be caught dead in the mosh pit. Half an hour later, after all the drinks of the night set in, I was front and center inside that mosh pit, shoving the ever-living shit out of everybody in my path. I took a few shots myself, and by the end of the day, my entire shirt was drenched in sweat — half of which I don’t think was my own. It was absolutely awesome.
Needless to say, I had a severe case of the Mondays in my return to work today. I actually think I accomplished less than I ever have in any day at work. When I got in, I’m pretty sure I spent the first four hours of the day staring blankly at my computer screen, because next thing I knew, it was already 1 o’clock. I’ll pay for that tomorrow, I’m sure.
It was a solid weekend, and a therapeutic weekend at that. Because, sometimes, you just feel the need to beat the shit out of people in a mosh pit.