EuropeanVacation
Originally uploaded by the management.
The management wishes to apologize in advance for the length of the following. Just remember, reading is fun-damental.
Let's just get this out of the way:
Miss-Shapes UK 1 - MisShapes US 0.
After ending up at some massive club called Cirque at the Hippodrome, where we somehow got set up in a VIP booth behind the DJ where we were force-fed champagne, we (the management, the lovely Secretary of Spousal Affairs, our fantastic host Leo, and new pal Alex) stumbled through Soho to Ghetto, home of Miss-Shapes. So how fun was it? Let's just say that within one minute of entering this seedy basement of wonder we were soaked in sweat, dancing our faces off, and grinning like idiots. Imagine a hotter, gayer, funner, Britisher version of MisShapes, and you're halfway there. Leo has provided photographic evidence of our drenched bliss. Before you make any cute comments about our huge, shit-eating grins and scrunched-up dance faces, ask yourself this: ever seen your face during an orgasm? Then shut up. Eventually you will come to grips with the fact that you are just jealous.
While it is unfortunate that we walked in just in time to hear the final note of Avenue D's live set, we nonetheless enjoyed one of the best nights out ever. Highlights: the guy with the huge mohawk and equally huge yellow hoop earrings; big 20oz cans of Red Stripe; "Dark of the Matinee"; (surprisingly) No Doubt's cover of "It's My Life"; Madonna (whose music becomes infinitely more fun when you're surrounded by every hipster fag in London); not having heard every song over and over every week; the feeling that the experience was surpassing our unreasonably high expectations.
After about three hours of sleep (which put us at three hours out of the previous 48), we hopped on the Eurostar to Paris. Can you say ROCK STAR? I knew you could. Another full day of eating and drinking ensued, after which we finally went to bed. Final tally: roughly four hours of sleep over 60 hours of travel, drinking, etc. Our fabulous host, Chris, had rented a car for the next day, and it was off to Chartres (which was awe-inspiring) and Versailles (which was... not). All in all, our three days in and around Paris were fantastic, despite the oppressive heat and the ubiquitous dog shit. Total piles of shit stepped in: one.
Back to London for one last day of fun. Finally made it to Rough Trade and spent too much money on Graham Coxon, Mahjongg, and The Futureheads, among others. The Futureheads continues to grow on me, although so far it's disappointing for an Andy Gill-produced album. After a sorrowful last day, we endured the worst fucking flight of all time to return to a flooded NYC. Why is it that every time I return to Brooklyn, my first thought is, "Why the bloody hell do I live here?" The management should stop using phrases like "bloody hell" (along with "crisps," "dodgy," and "flat") in about a week.
Okay, okay. So this has gotten lengthy and hearing about someone else's vacation is a lot like hearing about their dreams, their children, or their opinions. In a word, mind-numbingly boring. That's more like two and a half words.
In conclusion, the management would like to thank Leo and Chris for their generous hospitality; the beautiful Secretary of Spousal Affairs for being the best travel partner in the history of history; and Alex for the illuminating discussion of the current state of indie music and the greatness of St. Etienne. Special thanks to The Futureheads, Republic of Loose, No Doubt, Postal Service, The Libertines, The Smiths, Snow Patrol, Franz Ferdinand, and Madonna for providing the ideal European Vacation soundtrack ("Look, kids! Big Ben! Parliament!"). Finally, a very special thank-you to Jameson, Southern Comfort, Red Stripe, Kronenbourg 1664, Stella Artois, Kriek, Effligem, Carling, Molson Canadian, Amstel Light, Heineken, and, of course, Budweiser for all their support during this trip. Drugs were not readily available, and you all filled in quite nicely. Way to step up, alcohol!
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