NYC New Years: it actually WAS partying like 1999.

NYC New Year’s 1999 Journal

I slept well the night before my departure, which is always nice prior to embarking on a major party trip in which Phish concerts are the focal point. Charlie, my weird roommate who apparently believes cleanliness is next to Devilness made himself useful by giving me a ride to the airport, God love him. Unfortunately, my window seat was on the wrong side, allowing me to see Brooklyn and Queens instead of the famous island with all the notable shit. Never one to not make the best of a situation however, I marveled at the sheer size of the NYC area. Incredibly dense blocks of housing seemed to go on forever and left me wondering how in the hell all those people can get sufficient power, water, sewage, etc. Anyway, after flying over the largest cemetery I’ve ever seen, we landed in dreary, cold Queens.

I was quite glad to see my homeboy, David H. Leitner, waiting for me before I got to baggage claim. We rode in his beat-up Saab through the decidedly unpleasant surroundings, what with the ugly old buildings and the graffiti and, to his place of residence. After unloading his car full of stuff from his Ohio Christmas trip, we sat around his aesthetically-challenged dwelling smoking pot and watching NY1, the cable channel that offers up dismal local news 24/7. I was lucky to be able to resist cleaning and re-arranging what may be the most ill-advised use of space in tight conditions that I’ve ever seen and just be stoned. Hit the subway into town with Dave, who was headed to work just up the road from the Garden, and I was glad to have the tour guide for the moment.

Found the Wendy’s on 7th Ave. a little later than the 6:00 meeting time with various folks. Hung around there anyway smoking cigarettes, being cold, and selling extra tickets now and then. Met up with the dude off the internet with whom I set up the Disco Biscuits ticket swap and we made the trade. It was funny, because we were definitely two cats that wouldn’t exactly strike up a conversation normally because he had the full “dirt surfer”, a/k/a “wookie” thing going and I looked like quite the yuppie, I would assume. Anyway, ran into Chris, roommate Charlie’s friend that reminds me of the Seinfeld with the chick who talks way too softly, as well and made plans to call him the next day. After he left, it occurred to me that it doesn’t thrill me to hang out with him in Atlanta, what with having to axe him to repeat things three times and all, so why should I do it here in the capital of the world on vacation? Suffice it to say I blew him off and it took a few short days for the karma from that to come back to me…

Anyway, after pleasing numerous people with face-value tickets, (I could’ve, perhaps should’ve made a few hundred extra selling, but I’m a nice guy), I went into the legendary Madison Square Garden for the first time. Found my seat to be pretty good and enjoyed a good show---not a ton of highlights, (Quinn the Eskimo), but not bad at all. Had only a powerful pain killer as an intoxicant and a bit of pot smoke for the occasion because I wanted to pace myself for the long week ahead. Stopped by Dave’s place of employment, Revolution at 43rd and 9th, to have a drink and see what was shaking. As it turned out, Dave was a bit into the sauce and had done something to piss off the same bartendress that he had the last time I was in town. I don’t know if my presence has something to do with these dilemmas, but it can be a bit embarrassing. Luckily, I guess, Dave got to leave work early with his cool black roommate Ramone and me. We took to a place called the Whiskey, a Randy Gerber, (Cindy Crawford’s hubby), joint replete with original photos from some very notable rock photog whose name escapes me. The bar was in the lobby of the ultra-stylish Paramount Hotel, which proved to be an ironic arena for my nearly blind-drunk pal Dave that was basically dressed like a bum. Luckily he was friendly with the manager of the place, and we drank free eight-dollar drinks while Ramone and I marveled at how Dave could have any friends, given the levels of obnoxiousness he was attaining. We finally got out of there and into a cab back to Queens whereupon Dave disappeared and then came back with some blow. Always a fine idea at 4:30 in the morning in a dive apartment with no place left to party or any women to meet. I rejected the idea of partaking in this little pick-me-up, much to Dave’s chagrin, and fought my way to sleep despite the best efforts of a raging lunatic that used to be my pal from High School to keep me awake. I was really regretting not pursuing ticket trades for space at a stranger’s place in Manhattan at this point,, and not for the last time.



Bring on the Hooker!

I arose around noon the next day wishing I could walk to some hip café down the street for a bagel and a slice of NY life. Alas, I was reduced to heading over to the mall that has a very international flavor, not to mention an Orange Julius store. I must say that I enjoyed the visit to some extent because there are some of the most amazingly beautiful ethnic women wandering about this lower-middle class setting. Had a really bad slice of pizza at a homogenous place for breakfast and scored a paper to go back to the dump to check my high-flying stocks while getting baked. Decided to go ahead and blow off tonight’s Phish show because I wanted to save my energy for a late-night Disco Biscuits show at Wetlands. I was happy to find that Dave was only temporarily insane last night, although I found that spending too much time with him can grate my nerves anyway. Dave’s friend Paco, who joined us on 94’s Woodstock trip, came over for a trip into the city and the Biscuits show. It’s always good to see this chap Paco: quite soft-spoken but very intelligent. Intelligence was something I could’ve used this evening as we visited Dave’s friend Mark’s House of Ill Repute.

After an extremely frustrating drive around Midtown to find the place Dave had been to at least twenty times, we found ourselves in a tiny two-bedroom apartment. Dave was all into hooking up with one of these marginal “working girls: while Paco and I were content to hang out, although I was certainly intrigued with the idea of being a “John” for the first time. Seeing that I’m so picky, none of the four trick-turners got my attention right off the bat, although they weren’t bad. I felt quite odd about the whole situation, the whole concept of sex without any emotion at all, and I was pretty sure it would suck anyway. I let Dave’s friend Mark, the “madame” know this and basically said that I’d be sitting this one out. This prompted him to go into a sales mode, telling me he was going to hook me up with the one that would help me along, yada, yada. Dave was over there trying to talk me into it too, and, in the spirit of trying everything once and getting a bargain because Mark was slashing the price, I decided to go for it.

I soon found myself naked except for my socks, (cold feet, you see!), sitting in a typical bedroom with a vague smell of sin in the air and Third Eye Blind on the radio singing something about stepping back from a ledge. My pretty much graceless Lady of the Evening was a Latin girl probably around thirty allegedly from Venezuela. She was pretty attractive in the low light, but let’s just say her naked body wasn’t exactly all Mark had described. This was all pretty much beside the point, though, because there was no way in hell I was going to gain ten-hut status in this environment. First of all, I didn’t feel like kissing this chick because I didn’t even know her, and she wasn’t my type to boot. Suffice it to say that I spent a few minutes rolling around with her waiting for the hydraulics to put on weight. After a latex-restricted oral effort on her part, I’d pretty much given up on the task in hand and started thinking about cutting my losses. I figured that while I was here, I might as well get the girl to give me a good back-rub. I emerged to looks of astonishment from my crew when I told them my tale of woe. Apparently there aren’t too many people that pay $100 for a three-minute back rub in this place. I made it a point to say that it wasn’t the girl’s fault, because I didn’t want her to get in trouble and she was pretty cool, if not particularly attractive. Unfortunately, I had to pay the full price because it usually costs $200+ and half that is the girl’s cut, but I didn’t really care because it was a lesson learned and at least I didn’t get arrested oranything. As things turn out, I may be a wild man in some respects, but I must be a romantic at heart.

Mark was nice enough to serve up a beer and a huge shot of whiskey to help me drown my sorrows and it certainly worked, partly because of my empty stomach. We headed to Chinatown, which is near the Wetlands, to get something to eat in a joint that the fellas were fond of. It was quite good in the cramped quarters of the basement establishment. Lots of mirrors were good to have because there was a beautiful girl that was actually my type, (as opposed to the hooker), that I got to have eye sex with the whole time. I may be able to picture her face five years from now, as clear as it is in my head right now, I swear. Anyway, after a little more driving that felt a lot like being lost, we came upon the Wetlands, host to perhaps the best bar concert I’ve ever seen. The three of us took our drugs, (Dave and Paco splitting a hit of gel caps, (LSD), and me the first hit of X I’ve had in years), and headed in well before eleven for a marathon evening. It turned out that the dude I traded the Phish tix to left me three tickets on will call, so I didn’t even need the guest-list hook-up that the other guy I traded tickets with provided. Unfortunately, the circumstances made it impossible for me to make some spare cash off the whole thing by selling rights to get in. The money would’ve come in handy, seeing that a draft beer cost five dollars in the Wetlands.

Disco Biscuits Bring the Heat!

The bar was quite a nice music venue despite the main room being a little tight between the front and back walls. Luckily there was plenty of space off to the sides and another bar and band space in the basement. A top-notch, well-balanced sound system with satellite speakers placed throughout the club made for great sound on the rare occasions that I wasn’t in view of the stage. I was trolling quite unsuccessfully for a companion other than Dave and Paco before the Disco Biscuits started, but I soon had little attention for anything other than the band on the stage anyway. As luck would have it, I ended up next to a stunning 5’11” blonde at the intermission. She was a 20yr old knockout unfettered by the hassle of developing a decent personality or I would’ve followed her around the rest of my life. She kind of hung around me for a while, insisting on talking over the music, which is one of my major pet-peeves. I was too distracted to notice at what point in the four-plus hour show she left, but she definitely wasn’t among the madly blissing that witnessed the show’s end---her lossl!

The Disco Biscuits, as I mentioned a bit earlier, put on one of the finest bar shows I’ve ever seen. Despite having lousy voices and pretty weak songs, they worked the crowd towards the end of the show into a jamming mode not often witnessed at any show. They sound a lot like Phish, sporting the same general style, but the keyboard player is phenomenal, with sounds that apparently even he doesn’t know are coming up. I’ve decided that these guys are going to be my new Phish, because I’m pretty much done following them around after 33 shows---one for each year of my life is enough. It’ll be just as fun to catch the Biscuits in small bars until they hit it big because the best, truest rock and roll is always in the clubs, not the arenas.

The show ended around five, almost daybreak ala the Allman Brothers for their legendary Fillmore East concerts. The three of us took a spin through the village that included the brownstone on Led Zeppelin’s “Physical Graffiti” album and the set of a Rolling Stones video. Made a mandatory stop at the only 24-hour record store in the world at Dave’s insistence, but I must admit it was pretty cool. Dave and Paco got quite a charge out of the mere half-hits of the gel and had the time of their lives tonight as well. I enjoyed having Dave around to make comments to during the show because he understands music and my buddies who fit this bill keep getting real lives and stuff.. It also helped that he wasn’t all trashed like the night before. We got back to Queens as the sun came up in much better shape than the night before and I got to sleep more or less immediately for a few hours after a fine, completely eventful day, to say the least.

Upper West Side Escape

Got up earlier than I would’ve liked, but after partying all night, anything would’ve been too early! Hopped on the train and headed a few miles, but also a world away from the dismal Queens apartment. The hotel was on W. 81st, which was nice and all, but definitely seemingly homogenous. I fell victim to my old friends and fellow Phish fans Jeff and Amy’s travel woes as I spent over two hours of prime sleeping time waiting for them to show up, killing time in the lobby like a licensed bum or something. Sometimes hangovers can help out with the patience, I swear. Anyway, I was quite glad to see them, although not so fired up that I was unable to get to sleep for a brief nap soon after securing our accommodations. Our room was super-deluxe, especially after staying two nights in the lap of cat hair. We finally got a cab out of the cold and took it straight through Times Square to get to the Garden in time to trade my tickets to the dude for Allman Brothers CD’s and cash. Jeff and Amy’s first Phish show (12/30/98) was a decent one that I stayed more or less sober for, which is something an old person would do. The first set was one for the ages, running about 100 minutes and completely jamming. The second set was a letdown, with a bunch a curiously placed songs and relatively low energy level. They played a ton of songs that Jeff knew, which was good for him, and he caught still more the next night.

After the show we went to eat in a joint on Columbus Ave. called Big Nick’s, a dive with the salad prep area right next to the front door; (I never got used to how cramped everything is in NYC). I was surprised to be castigated for having my foot up on the chair next to me, but I wasn’t going to rock the boat and possibly get rubbed out by Nig Bick. (Had to be there.) We retired to the hotel at a reasonable hour, (considering we were in NYC), because we’re old and need to save up our energy these days.


Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s 1999!
I finally slept well in my sizable bed here in the luxurious Upper West Side and was thankful for that. The three of us decided to go for something to eat and, in our brilliance, got around to axing the doorman for suggestions ninety minutes after we started wandering around. First stop was the legendary Dakota, residence to John Lennon, among many other notable people It’s a spectacular pre-war building right on the park, the very cold park. Thought we were going to dine at a place called Tequilas until we noticed the $15 burritos on the menu, whereupon we bolted. Finally ended up in a basic Chinese joint that was sufficient, and, most importantly at that point, warm. I went back to the room to nap and watch a bit of football, seeing that I was in the college bowl game pool and all, and nap. Jeff and Amy went over to the East Side to do a little shopping and check out the fur coats but were back pretty quickly for naps of their own.

After the naps, we got a pre-reveler cab down to Washington Square Park and then strolled about the Village, which was far more interesting than the West Side---next time, I’m staying down there. We ducked into a restaurant and had a couple of beers with our potatoes and whatnot while killing time before the show of all shows. As an aside, this restaurant was like many of the other ones in that the walls were covered with pub photos of “celebrities”. Problem was that for most of them, the extent of their fame was, well, being on the wall of some second-rate eatery in New York! I’ll have photos next time I’m in town and I’m going to be sure to get on the wall somewhere, for sure.

Took the subway three stops up to the Madison Square Garden, which was oh-so-appropriate because the mail-order tickets include a subway car in the graphics. Hit a sports bar with a good juke box before-hand whereupon we dropped appropriate amounts of acid. I might’ve done well to wait because my already weak negotiating skills were further eroded 30 minutes later when it was time to barter my piece of gold, my extra New Year’s ticket. Going for well over $300 through brokers and such, I was content to trade for drugs of choice and a little cash. Found a dude with some killer buds and cash and settled for $20 and about $20 worth of really dank weed. Oh, and I got a hug from the most appreciative phan, too. I was immediately castigated by Jeff and Amy for not going for more, especially the big-ass bud the guy to my right had. Like an idiot, I had a picture of that bud being bogus because in the light that was present, it reminded me of shit bums used to sell in downtown Atlanta. In the final analysis, though, I could’ve gotten more, but then I’d have more pot on my hands to kill my motivation when the New Year starts, so it’s all hood. Besides, I’m happy to hook people up for face value anyway.

We had fine seats---not the greatest, but certainly a fine view and good sound. The show was truly amazing, as I expected, and some glow-stick shenanigans made it even better even as my long johns felt like an extra twenty pounds in the heat of the concert. Phish opened with a very festive version of Prince’s “1999” and then delivered a very hot set. I was less than pleased with my un-rocking neighbors in the stands, so I ventured up on the concourse for the second set, tripping my ever-loving balls off at this point, I might add. (The doses I traded NYE tix for in Tennessee may be the best I’ve ever had.) Anyway, the second set completely blazed, complete with a cover of the Talking Head’s “Cities”, which was way cool and a smoking version of the ever-evolving “Antelope” that had the place going nuts. There were some hotties in this area that I probably would’ve done well to hit on at the next intermission, but I really didn’t want the distraction and wanted to hang with Jeff and Amy anyway. New Year’s was rung in with a searing “Runaway Jim”, yet another of the songs Jeff wanted to see, but it was kind of a disappointment to me musically at the end. There were enormous balloons dropped from the rafters and Phish’s lead singer and guitarist Trey spent more time trying to pop them than worrying about playing music. I’m pretty sure he was drunk, but given my state, I wouldn’t swear to anything.

We pretty much closed the Garden and then wandered out into New York New Year’s at about 1:30. We had absolutely no plan B, i.e. where to go or what to do at this point. I wanted to go dance my life away, and the sooner the better. Amy was certainly down with that idea as far as I could tell, but Jeff was going into some anal-retentive mode that non-dancers seem to possess. I was still peaking at this point and had NYC as my oyster, so it was a bit frustrating to have my party anywhere near pooped at this point. I’m not sure what Jeff’s agenda was, especially after he contended that there wasn’t anything to do! He was being a pain in the ass, but it was probably apprehension from the acid. Anyway, Jeff’s coment prompted an oh-too-cute Amy to exclaim that: “It’s New Years and we’re in NYC! We could go that way, or we could go that way, or we could go that way.” In another town, I probably would’ve decided to meet them somewhere later and wander off on my own, probably hooking up with some hotties dancing at a drum circle. As things stood, we had no place to meet other than the room and I didn’t want to lose them the rest of the night, so I swallowed my independent nature for a minute and we repaired to the sports bar where things more or less started to get warm and make a new plan.

I was picturing this place as being a major party post-show if enough Phish phans had found their way up there.. As things stood, it was an odd collection of ethnic diversity with precious few phellow phans and even fewer people dancing. This may have been the only dance floor in the world that had nobody dancing to “1999” at this hour. Then again, this was also a sports bar in which none of the employees knew who won an epic battle between UGA and UVA a few hours earlier. I sat with Jeff and Amy shooting the shit for awhile wishing to God I could find a rocking party and/or chick while being tortured by Madonna’s sultry “Justify My Love” on the sound system.. This only made me think of Julie, the only girl I ever really loved and the best sex I’ve ever had, to boot. Anyway, right about then the Prince song “7” comes on and I’m like “I don’t give a rat’s ass, I’m dancing to this!” So up I go, the only one on the dance floor in this place of about forty people. I was absorbed in the music until I realized that the highlights from the crucial aforementioned football game came on the screen on the dance floor. I was then transformed into a fan watching the end of a game that was crucial to my bowl pool hopes and a lot of money. Right about then, two floozies on a serious bender came out and start dancing to “7” with me, and they actually know the tune and everything. Things were looking really good until they spoke, whereupon it became clear that they were not rocket scientists, (almost), and willing to let me buy them a shot, which was the last thing they needed. Anyway, Jeff and Amy decided to bolt at this point, which was fine with me, because this party wasn’t going anywhere and there had to be a better one somewhere.

I decided that we should give Dave’s place of employment, Revolution, a shot because it’s a pretty cool place. We got in a cab pointed the wrong direction and, after the cabby contended that, “I can’t get there from here!” he finally saw things are way and made a few turns to get to eighth. We got out of a much in demand cab at 43rd and 9th wondering if we were fucking up by forfeiting the wheels only to find that the bar in question was hosting a swank private party for which we were anything but suitably dressed. We wandered on from there, somehow not stopping and savoring a top-notch argument between two party-goers. I vaguely remember this gorgeous brunette screaming at this guy half a block away and clearly regret not axing her to join us on our adventure. I mean, what did I have to lose? Anyway, we wandered up 44th and landed in a bar that’s name escapes me, but suffice it to say it was a neighborhood Irish joint in the basement of a building. A quite jolly place, it was, albeit without a dance party going on. They did however, have some good rock and roll playing and a cast of characters that made for quite good entertainment.

We ended up talking to quite a few revelers in the short time we hung out, including one drunk dude who was a Phish fan who feels it “right here!” as he pointed to his heart. There was a girl that came up to him that appeared to be his girlfriend, but quickly explained otherwise.. Indeed, this chick did everything quickly: talk, move, take the floor, assert opinions, and disappear after I made a remark to Jeff about us “hitting it off” that for some reason pissed her off. Anyway, she was quite a trip and went on and on about how much she loved the Phish show the 29th, the night I missed. She also mentioned that she was in publishing and is totally into reading, making some interesting points about that as well. The net, net of it was I basically fell in love with the girl and told Jeff and Amy that that is exactly what my wife will act like---mind sharp as a tack, not afraid to speak her piece and not bashful at all. Luckily she was five feet tall tops, so obviously we could never be an item and I can move on without obsessing over the perfect girl in NYC.

The rest of the crowd there was pretty sharp and funny, too, including a demented fuck from Baltimore that was in withdrawals from pot because he has a “wiz quiz” coming up. He said he’s been a daily smoker since he was fourteen or something and has never had to quit. Since he’s duct-taped his kind bud and thrown it in his closet he has been having sleepless nights, yada, yada, yada. He was far too drunk to be succinct, but at least he was coherent and entertaining, as were the others. Made half-plans to meet up with some other cats the next day to watch bowl games, but it was difficult because we didn’t know exactly where to meet, and this was before cell phones were ubiquitous. . We finally made it back to the hotel around four-thirty and almost made it to sleep before the sun came up. Quite an eventful day and man, what a fantastic trip!

NYC: Hung Over

Was lucky enough to be able to stay in the room until noon, which was a couple of hours later than Jeff and Amy did because they had a flight to catch. I headed back down to Hell’s Kitchen to meet Andy for football viewing on a very cold day. He wasn’t answering the phone at the agreed-upon hour of noon, or one, or two, or three, for that matter. As things turned out, he basically completely forgot about me while he was shacked-up with the babe he is currently hot and heavy with. I tried to find a decent place to view the games by myself and ended up a dive called the Blarney Stone or something at 8th and 48th. I took advantage of the killer pot I had and enjoyed the afternoon solo, kicking it with the locals, one of which was an 81 yr old woman pounding shots of VO. She proved to be the life of the party, offering up off-color jokes in between renditions of show tunes and withering diatribes directed at whoever had pissed her off at the moment. The mouth of a sailor, that woman, I tell ya! Tried to call Amy O. from the bar at one point, but I guess she was working or whatever. Reluctantly took the train back to Queens after Michigan secured a win to keep me in the pool, hating the fact that I wasn’t hanging out with Andy and partying harder in the city. This would be the karma, I suppose, for blowing off the young lad from Atlanta that wanted to hang with me earlier in the trip.

Queens sucked, but I would’ve been looking at a TV regardless of where I was. UCLA put in a pathetic performance and lost the game outright, thus ruining my chance for this year’s bowl, although I will place high once again. Watched football the rest of the evening and was annoyed by Dave, but at least he went to sleep very early, which was a bonus. A decent day, but it went to prove that things can only go you way most of the time, I guess, at least I made the best of things.

Woke up with energy, but I was in dismal Queens and it was too cold to bother with much, so I took to trying to clean up the place. I figured that once I got Dave started, he’d be on a roll, but I guess that’s not how slobs operate. It was definitely better than when we started, though. Watched a bit of football and made another visit to the Georgia diner, where we were joined by one of Dave’s girlfriends from Ohio that was pretty cool and also picked up the tab for Ramone and me, which was nice. Killed a little more time and then Dave dropped me off at LaGuardia a bit early because he had to give whatshername a ride to JFK. I was glad to hang out with a $5.25 beer and watch a little football before boarding the flight. We were on the plane, five minutes from take-off, when the Cap'n informed us of a “security breach”, i.e., some nut ran through the metal detector and they never corralled him. This required us, and even planes taxiing away, to completely unload and have everybody pass through the metal detectors again. Not exactly the way to end a trip, waiting in line with thousands of people for an hour or two. At least I wasn’t the guy next to me, who missed a stand-by spot on the previous flight by one person.

Anyway, I was lucky enough to be stupid enough to still have the metal one-hitter Jeff bought on me, and took this delay as an opportunity to get good and baked. I was also able to purchase some gel caps for the road from a phellow Phish phan, which was quite the bonus, because I never did hook up at the show. Finally got back on the plane and had a smooth flight into Atlanta, albeit three hours late. Brian was out of town, so Charlie accepted the double-duty, (he dropped me off to start this journey), and picked me up. We hit the grocery store before we went home and I marveled at how the parking lot seemed like open space now, where it seemed congested before my trip to NYC. Anyway, a decent final day to the trip, I guess, thank God for weed sometimes!

To summarize this journey, I should start by saying that, while it could’ve been better, I probably still managed to have more fun in six days than most people have in six months. It was good to hang with Dave at the concert, but pretty much a nightmare to deal with him otherwise because I swear the dude is stuck at age 18. Granted, I’m only about 25, but Jesus! It was a blast to hang with Jeff and Amy, who are too funny and just great friends.. ‘Til next trip, Peace!