Tony stayed home this weekend to nurse Ariel, who is suffering through her first-ever UTI. Poor guy, this kitty has never been sick before, and she's not the easiest of patients, especially when he's trying to stick a digital thermometer in her butthole or an antibiotic tablet down her throat. While he took care of her many orifices, I was off gallivanting in New York City with five of my best childhood friends, commonly known as JoeParadox.
Friday night we gathered at The Slaughtered Lamb - an homage to one of our favorite movies, An American Werewolf in London. The incessant group laughter began there on the patio and continued through Sunday, where we headed back to our individual lives and families. Hoarder of nostalgia that I am, everyone was able to select their favorite Police pin from the collection that once graced my well-worn jean jacket for a decade beginning in 1982. Pins in place, we headed over to Madison Square Garden for the event we'd been waiting for since 1984: The Police reunion concert.
Through a series of serendipitous events and connections, a very generous editor at New York Magazine's entertainment blog, Vulture, let me take a crack at reviewing the show. This was my first foray into the pro-blogging world, and I learned, among other things, that editors are incredibly skilled at making amateur writers sound really, really good in print. You can read the article here, if you're so inclined: Sting Still Can't Play Well With Others.
The Police concert was everything we'd hoped it would be - a giant karaoke show of all our favorite songs, save "Spirits in the Material World." Bastages. We skipped into the pouring rain on Seventh Avenue, singing the chorus to Regatta de Blanc, before heading into the West Village for a nightcap of ice water - at our ages, we weren't used to jumping up and down for two hours straight, let alone staying up past 11 o'clock at night.
The next day we had a fantastic brunch at Seana's apartment before heading to the Met for a couple of hours. We were joined by two of JP's six husbands/boyfriends and two of the six total kids in our bunch. A subway ride and a street festival preceded the final event of the weekend: dinner in Tribeca. Despite the restaurant's trendy location, we didn't spot any celebrities, but we were so rapt in conversation, some might have brushed up against us walking down Hudson Street and we wouldn't have noticed.