I’m initially pissed off, but after a cup of whiskey and ice, I mellow out. I start slurring—only a bit. And he’s happy the angry look has faded from my face and I look happy enough. He totally bullshits his friends. I tell him in another life he was a great publicist. He laughs. He is a good liar. I wish I could lie like him. And after we stop for burgers, and some nice gentlemen hands me a free joint “just for being cute”, we make our way to the concert. I sit down in my row and ask the boys to my left and right if they want to get high. Everyone laughs, and we pass the joint back and forth. My dad laughs, too. He’s playing air guitar and air drums and air bass and air ringmaster. I feel embarassed. But then I don’t. The guys around us are stoned and looked stupefied by the length of the music. My father is jumping and feigns a windmill. He has his bandana on, covering the traces of baldness, and a cigarette hanging off his hand. He is infintely happy. And that makes me happy; enough.
Subway MapSubway Philosophy is about New York, culture, sex, publishing, memories, alcohol, or a combination of the above. Originally taken from drunken musings on the subway, it has evolved into something extraordinarily similar to most young blogs: which is to say, redundant, romantic, and woefully introspective.
Current Subway ReadingWhite Teeth