The Band Is Back Together
NEW ROCHELLE, NY -- The band is back together.
In case you didn't read the headline, you now know it.
(you know it!)
That includes the entire 549 Coalition
(skip to the end), as well as many other auxillary members...
It's nice to be back in the Queen City of the Sound. It's especially nice when you know tomorrow begins the 20 year countdown clock.
DB did the driving, after the quick tour of the institution that helped take me from boy to man (yeah, that sounds awful like a bad Nickelodeon show, or something on ABC on Friday nights...and I don't mean the Australian Broadcast Company...)
The drive that was dreadful for too many times to count was theraputic. It was also broken up several times because old man here had to pee.
And I had a proper cuppa Dunkin Donuts (large hot, skim, one sugar...it rolls off the tongue), so it make me sorta hafta pee.
And when we arrived at the finest four-year institution between Fairfield and Fordham, it was a welcome sight. Yes, it is uncommon to hang out in a place that you used to work, but, well, they have beer. And football. (kinda.)
After a few minutes, and a few texts, we found Shaky...now the erstwhile assistant coach of young men and women. And, despite the sublimity in seeing one of Earth's most solid individuals, me and DB (or is it "DB and I?" Whatever. The "both of us.") it was time to go to the place where I spent the third-most time in New Roc-izzle - the Avenue Deli.
(not a #2...went #32, with a splash of balsamic.)
Delish. I mean, real delish. And I inhaled it like Lindsay Lohan and an eight-ball in the bathroom of Bungalow 8.
After pouncing on the sando, I took in a bit of the "football" (bit = maybe 46 seconds) and headed to the beer tent.
And by beer-tent, I mean "bunch of assholes in a confined area who you didn't like ages ago, still don't like know, and bump into you so you spill your dixie cup of Bud Light or you get theirs spilled on you. Fun for all ages. Well, not really. Only those over 21. I kinda wish I wasn't there, so I left and went to heckle my old assistant/now replacement. The goal was to subliminally say the word shampoo (in this case, "shampoo" = "douchebag") as he was the P.A. announcer and I thought that it would sound funny if he said "Carry by Douchebag, tackle by Sullivan...third down LaSalle."
By then, J-Malls was in the house, spry and fresh, while Dyzzy was in lockdown mode in his role as the Assistant Director of Campusland Security. Buzzy was en route, packing his service revolver and, unfortunately, his bird.
But regardless, the watches were unevenly synchronized to focus on the 6 o'clock hour - which was the point of coming down the N to the R-O. (author's note: not NiRoPe) It was a night out, with a 100 dollar cover, with open bar and open lobster.
Rather than go to the one single establishment left on North Avenue (the Champs-Elysses of Westchester County), it was MobilMart, a sixer of some hoity-toity beer, and a 12er of the cham-pag-nuh (you can take me out of the MKE, but you can't take the Miller Lite proclivity out of me...) for some Notre Dame football and the new Justin Timberlake CD on awful loud.
(yeah, JT. five men. all of whom have their pants on.)
Beer, good friends, oh shampoo! Shoulders just walked in, all growns up and with a tie.