Bright Lights, Big City - Part 1

I fancy myself a avid traveler and I guess over the last 3 years, I have been. Much more than others and not as much as many, enough for some - but not so much for me. If I had my druthers, I'd be in a perpetual state of transit. Not a transient, mind you but a globe-trotting and free wheeling gentleman of some esteem, adept at wooing daughters of royalty while drinking with servants in the bowels of Romanian castles.

Fancying myself as something I am not is a wonderful daydream but the reality of the situation is my travel is primarily domestic, my free wheeling has budgetary constraints and my wooing is akin to Mario Mendoza's success rate hitting a baseball. Regardless, I flee when I can; exploring the lower 48 with the same enthusiasm I'd have continent hopping with an amex black and Olivia Munn as Princes Leia.



A fortunate set of circumstances recently allowed me to visit a place I've never wanted to go: New York City. Frontier airlines dangled a $220 round trip fare direct from DIA to La Guardia (La Gwordia? La Gahdiah?) that I simply could not pass up given that both my cousin Matt and college chum Brian live there. Matt is a student and NYU and Brian is a professional writer. If Matt were an investment banker and Brian a TV personality, I'd probably not have considered the trip. I assumed that both were proximate to my economic stratosphere (me being on the low end, of course) and that I could navigate the big pomegranate on a shoestring budget like those cute little guide books advise. My two hosts were more than accommodating, providing a plethora of options that didn't murder my wallet and may have even elevated my antiquated thought process a level or two.

-Strip Clubs
-Cheap Weed
-40's of Malt Liquor

I kid, I kid... well, except for the 40's

I hold up 4 fingers because we are drinking 40's
Apoloigies to fiddy cent
we is drankin fotys
Look how mature and distinguished we all look with our beards.
Pillsbury Dough Boy PHOTOBOMB!

As I was making final preparations to depart Denver, I emailed Matt to determine how best to acquire transportation from the airport to his apartment in Queens. Let me back up a bit and first tell you that I know nothing about New York. It's geography is completely foreign to me, I have absolutely no idea how to navigate the subway system and the neighborhoods (Brooklyn, Queens, Manhatten) are only significant to me as places that Jay-Z , Woody Allen or Billy Crystal perorate about via pop-culture.

I do remember that Eddie Murphy's character in Coming To America wanted to move to Queens when arriving in New York because he logically concluded that's where he would find an American Queen.



As one who doesn't typically use cabs I'm always a little uneasy about a cab driver pulling wool over my eyes, even in Denver. I'm about to head to the stereotypical asshole cab drive capitol of the modern world, clueless as to where I'm headed, white as snow with a suitcase in tow. Awesome. To further boost my confidence, Matt replies to my email with a very reassuring instructions as to how to deal with said cab driver:

"Once in said cab, prolly yellow, tell them that you are going to Astoria. With all of the NYC cocky confidence you've got, say 23rd ave at 28th st. If they ask how they should get there, respond with "whatever is fastest."

Grrrrreeeaaat. Damon Scott, Mr. NYC Cocky Confidence coming straight from the snow capped Colorado mountains on horseback pulling a carriage full of barrels of ice-cold Coors Original. I departed the plane around 11pm and made my way out of the severely outdated terminal, bypassing the baggage claim and exited the automatic sliding doors on a mission to quickly find a yellow cab. I looked to my left and saw a line of people patiently awaiting their turn to hop in the back seat of the clean and modern looking vehicles and I think to myself, "piece of cake... this ain't so bad". However, as my place in line continued to inch forward, I felt a tinge anxiety creep in between my ears and I started to stiffen up which is amazing because I concealed 5 shooters of whiskey on to the plane with me and pretty much downed them all while watching Millionaire Matchmaker on the smallish TV screen in the back of the seat

Yes... She's that scary, even miniaturized

I walked to the front of the line as the yellow Ford Escape pulled up beside me. The driver came around back to assist loading my suitcase into the rear of the SUV. In a thick and indistinguishable accent, he politely asked where I was headed. I loudly replied "ASTORIA. QUEENS!" His eyes seemed to widen a bit and he hesitantly nodded and backed away from the agitated, shaking, half-drunk loud mouth standing in front of him. With my iPhone clenched in my sweaty palm, GPS fixated on the destination; we silently rolled off into the bustling New York night. A few pleasantries were exchanged over the course of the 15 minute cab ride and I arrived quickly; unscathed, un-robbed and unharmed.

Over the course of the following 72 hours, I packed in as much New York City action as I could muster -- on a shoestring budget, of course.

Friday: 11:45 pm -- Matt and I drink multiple glasses/shots of beer/whiskey while catching up on life

Saturday: 10:30am -- Matt, Shauna, ((Matt's fiance) and I catch the subway to "museum row" and head to The Metropolitan Museum of Art. I take pictures:






Matt is currently a PhD candidate at NYU's Institute of Fine Arts (I think). He's smart. He knows a lot about art. He has a penchant to fart. We spent a few hours at the enormous museum until it was time to get a drink. We headed to the southern exit and walked out to central park right as the sun was setting behind the Manhattan skyline. We grabbed a couple of Irish coffee's, had a seat on the quaint patio overlooking the small pond. It was all quite bromantic and fitting of a John Cusack cameo and a string quartet.



Matt and I met up with Shauna and walked down 5th avenue into the epicenter of mass consumerism and manufactured holiday cheer. There was a massive tree that must have been photographed 1.43 million times in the 5 minutes I was trapped amongst the immoveable heard of cattle people. I took one too:

Church of Jobs

Upon suffering a mild panic attack, I notified my hosts that I needed to depart Santa Claus Central with haste; certainly not before acquiring my new Louis Vuitton hand bag and Dolce Gabbana heels.

I was dutifully whisked away to an oasis of $3 draft beer and excellent Ethiopian cuisine:

With bellies full of beer and injera, we migrated to some other part of the eternal city in search of a Johnny Walker scotch tasting but instead found ourselves at a dingy garden level bar straight from the northern Florida coast line. Walls adorned with cheeky, cliche, beach/pirate lingo; weathered fishing nets (probably purchased that way), wooden steering wheels or "helms" from boats. The ubiquitous game of beer-pong provides endless hours of intermittent and entertaining LOUD YELLING-GIRL SCREAMING-DRINK, DRINK, DRINKING -- perhaps only surpassed by the near ear-orgasmic quality of hearing frat dudes bounce quarters off wooden tables in an epic battleship war!



At this point, the three of us made the wise decision to catch the N train back toward Astoria but not before stopping to cap the night off with a little karaoke and a place that I don't remember. Thankfully, I neither have video nor pictures of the evenings entertainment. What is readily apparent is that Matt is blessed with the "talented singer" genes and I received the singular "talented idiot" chromosome.

Shauna, Matt, and I.
One very lucky mirror.

Part 2:
-Hanging with Brian
-Pizza
-Polish Beer
-Brooklyn
-Tebow Time
-GHOSTBUSTERS!

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Where am I?

Yeeeeaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Back home, foos! Well, kind of home. I mean, I don't actually live anywhere right now. It reminds me of being on the road as I'm not quite sure exactly I'll end up on a nightly basis but I pretty much feel like I'll figure it out as the day moves along. Camping is a viable option, so are Wal-Mart parking lots. Perhaps a Wal-Mart parking lot followed by a visit to a 24 hour fitness parking lot. I can support evil corporations that put independent business owners out of work as well as grabbing a jog and a lift and a shower. Like this guy!



How's that for optimism?

op-ti-mism

–noun

1.

a disposition or tendency to look on the more favorable side of events or conditions and to expect the most favorable outcome.

Like I said, I'm back home. Meaning, that I'm painfully behind on this update thing. Deal with it. I have a certain set of conditions that need to be met before I put finger to key. In no particular order:

• Time
  

That's not exactly true, I have another set of requirements:

• Independent wealth
  
• Motivation (money)
  
• Gold!
  

I think I last told you I was going to talk about the bustling troposphere of Jackson, Mississippi. Here it is in picture word form:

Love me some Fat Back

Across the street from Old Tavern on George, where The Congress played in Jackson

Um... Yeah...

Ladies and Gentleman, I'd like to introduce Robbie "The Entertainer" Peoples:

I actually think that this picture sums up what Robbie "The Entertainer" Peoples is all about. It wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me to go on talkin about this nice southern folk. Let's just say that Robbie "The Entertainer" Peoples lives up to his name... and some, and a little more + a little bit. Like sweet tea that's too sweet -- mixed with way too much whiskey.

The first time I saw this guy in Colorado, he was wearing a white suit, playing a mean harp, and making the ladies swoon with his infectious energy (sweet tea) and slow southern drawl (whiskey). The last time I saw him, he had a shy southern bell licking his bare chest as we sweated our ass off in the non air conditioned band house behind the Ole Tavern. The night of rest turned out to be pleasantly uncomfortable as the four of us managed to catch some shut eye skilfully adjacent to a industrial fan that was on warp speed.

We had a blast in Jackson and can't wait to go back. I ate some fried catfish in Mississippi, which, unbeknownst to me, is the catfish capitol of the whole dang world. It was good. It was battered and fried, seasoned and salted. That combination generally doesn't fail. Unless it does.

Following a sweaty stint in Mississippi, we headed up I-65 North to Nashville for a half day of rest before and a subsequent Monday evening performance at 3rd & Lindsley bar and grill which is a beautiful room with great sound. We had a modest but enthusiastic crowd that listened intently and applauded our every move (my family was there). We were done by 9pm which was strange to us as we are generally just loading in at that time of night. The Congress had a free night off in Nashville. Uh-Oh, what does that mean?

KARAOKE!!!

If Dwight looks like he's singing a Vegas show tune, he most likely is.

Ole red beard crushing some country crap I've never heard.

Fortunately for me and unfortunately for you, I don't think there are any pictures of my mad karaoke ability. You see, my serious lack of singing talent is made up for by a hell of a stage performance complete with kicks, crowd points, multiple index finger come-hither(s) and poor, poor falsetto (which works particularly well when attempting songs by The Police). I'd like to take top idiot award for the night but Scott's amazing version of Seal's "Kiss From A Rose" can instantly impregnate women from a block and a half away. In addition to creating life, his ear piercing final chorus vocal explosion could be used as a strategic weapon by the military to drive out stubborn Central American drug lords after a 47 hour stand off.

Alright, kids. I'm going to depart the rigatoni (Roll your R's!!!) tubes of the interweb so I can walk up stairs from the incredible green room at The Ghost Ranch Saloon in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. This place is pretty awesome. It's in the mountains, they fed us really good food and there is a piano autographed by every band/artist/party crasher/server that has stepped foot in this room. I will now take a picture of the piano and post it. It's a real time update, kind of a like a twitter but not as stupid or important, depending on how you look at such things.

Damn, I'm getting off track. I still have Louisville, Knoxville, Memphis and Carbondale to cover before The Congress gets home... even though we are home. We'll, I'm not home, even though I am home. Colorado is home, for now -- because I like the flag and the mountains... and The Broncos but I'm not sure about Tebow.

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