The 3 Nights of Tom
I marched up Church Street in TriBeCa bearing a flag. The flag had previously marked the epicenter of our Midsummer land grab in Battery Park. Which we take very seriously.
My marching endeavor was cut short by Karen, who absconded with the flag. She could no longer take my so-called "willy nilly" approach to flag bearing. She was in the army, where nothing is especially willy nilly. Karen braced the flag in a grip that clearly took some practice. I tried to copy her example, but hopping around a maypole like a small alcoholic frog for five hours had really taken a toll on my ability to concentrate.
Our procession of Tom Revelers arrived at the birthday celebration restaurant. Luckily the maitre d' was willing to check the flag in the coatroom because some people not including me felt it might be awkward to gad about a dining room hoisting a flag. Thus began the First Night of Tom.
The Second Night of Tom transpired over sushi. Upon reviewing the menu, Guy noted that the roll formerly known as "Fat Boy" had been hand-corrected to read "Fab Boy." The waiter told us apparently some chunky monkey in suburban New Jersey had gotten their panties in a bunch over the "Fat" reference.
Nonetheless, I was confused. We had just spent the weekend salmoning betwixt a mob of very Fab Boys in high heels and occasionally bare chested beneath rainbow Pride-themed lederhosen. I could see why a lumpy sushi roll with a gloppy shmear of mayo might be a Fat Boy, but a Fab Boy? Oh, please.
On the Third Night of Tom, we went to Aska and had 17 courses of lovely things meticulously arranged on pottery. The Fab Boy met the Fat Boy right there in the middle and life was really fucking good.
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| Midsummer in Battery Park, NYC. View from the SSCNY Land Grab |
My marching endeavor was cut short by Karen, who absconded with the flag. She could no longer take my so-called "willy nilly" approach to flag bearing. She was in the army, where nothing is especially willy nilly. Karen braced the flag in a grip that clearly took some practice. I tried to copy her example, but hopping around a maypole like a small alcoholic frog for five hours had really taken a toll on my ability to concentrate.
Our procession of Tom Revelers arrived at the birthday celebration restaurant. Luckily the maitre d' was willing to check the flag in the coatroom because some people not including me felt it might be awkward to gad about a dining room hoisting a flag. Thus began the First Night of Tom.
The Second Night of Tom transpired over sushi. Upon reviewing the menu, Guy noted that the roll formerly known as "Fat Boy" had been hand-corrected to read "Fab Boy." The waiter told us apparently some chunky monkey in suburban New Jersey had gotten their panties in a bunch over the "Fat" reference.
Nonetheless, I was confused. We had just spent the weekend salmoning betwixt a mob of very Fab Boys in high heels and occasionally bare chested beneath rainbow Pride-themed lederhosen. I could see why a lumpy sushi roll with a gloppy shmear of mayo might be a Fat Boy, but a Fab Boy? Oh, please.
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| A delicious Aska trifle depicted on a photo I did not take. |
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| The Silly Rabbit. It's a lot of bourbon if you must know. And I also did not take this photo. I'm feaster not a flasher. |
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