Brothers and Sisters,
My flight left Burbank airport at 4pm on Friday. By 2am on Saturday, I was home in Connecticut. I got some sleep and then headed with my family to my cousin's Bar-Mitzvah. Was great to see family there, despite being so tired... Bar Mitzvah boy, no lying, took his bass guitar up to the stage and jammed with the band, doing a pretty rockin' cover of Clapton's "Cocaine". Those of us in the crowd who recognized the song, looked around, trying to make eye contact with each other, trying to figure out if this was indeed happening... And yes, it was. His friends were cheering, and while my uncle might be somewhat upset, my cousin just made himself the coolest B'nai Mitzvah kid ever... Or at least the coolest one in Westchester County.
Saturday, the snow began to fall on the East Coast. The plan to go into the city was cancelled. I ended up driving to Greenwich with my high school friend, Adam. On our way to dinner, he asks, "Have you ever seen the parking garage?". His eyes light up when it's apparent that I have no idea what he's talking about. To preface this, let me reiterate: I am a car guy. I'm not a pro sports guy... I'm not into hunting or fishing... It's one of the few things I can be macho about: knowing all sorts of useless info on fancy cars that accelerate faster and cost more than any car really should... Adam and I park by a nice office building in Greenwich, and proceed to walk down the ramp into an underground parking garage. We come around a corner. There are six Bentley/Rolls Royces. Nice, but Adam tells me there's more. We walk down another level or two. The underground parking garage is cavernous. My jaw drops. There are about 100 cars, about half of them vintage, and some of them very rare. There's a car that there are only 100 of in the world, and there were 2 of them in there. About a dozen Ferraris, about sixty Rolls Royces and Bentleys... I think there was only one Porsche. And a lot of these cars were covered in dust, like year's worth of dust. You don't need a pass to get into the garage. The cars are just sitting there. If you and I ever go steady, and I take you home with me to Connecticut to meet the parents, I'll take you to see the Greenwich parking garage where overpriced cars secretly sit, collecting dust.
Dinner is at a restaurant (Gingerbread Man?) that specializes in Belgian Beers. We have oysters. We have mussels. Yes, we also have beer. It's nice to know there's a place in Connecticut that has all of my favorite beers available. We go into a bar called Blue for some drinks. Then, we walk around a quiet downtown Greenwich for a while as the snow falls. There are stops for drinks in South Norwalk (a bar that looked like a good place to have a fight in a shitty action movie, lots of banisters to fall through, a big dancefloor for a heavily populated punch/kick marathon...) and then in Stamford (some place filled with greaseball dudes which struck me as the sort of place that's the coolest bar in a shitty city). My parents call repeatedly. When I get home, they are there with aspirin and bottled water. Thank the lord. The headache on Sunday morning could've been much worse.
Sunday is yesterday. Can't leave the house 'cause there's so much snow. My flight is cancelled so I try to figure out the quickest way back to Los Angeles. Here it is: At 8pm tonight, I fly from Boston to Las Vegas. The next flight out of Vegas isn't until 6am (to LAX, my car is at Burbank... Groan.), so I'll be in Vegas for six hours. Will I wait around at the airport or check into a hotel and try to get some shut-eye? No. Because that'd be the boring choice. I'm planning to head to the strip, lose a hundred dollars in an Elvis Presley themed slot machine, and then treat myself to a shitty 4am breakfast. From LAX tomorrow morning, I'm taking a cab to Burbank where I'll pick up my car and then, tired as all-hell, drive to work. The earliest flight directly to LAX I could get from NY or Boston is Wednesday so this seemed like the best choice. Adam's driving me to Boston this morning. I'm off to get ready. Be well, Eric
