Updates, Part I: Memorial Day Weekend.

Since my camera was in Robert’s pocket when he was unsuspectingly pushed into a pool out on Fire Island, I have no photographic evidence of what took place Memorial Day Weekend. And even though I know my Boo feels bad, I could honestly care less about my camera. The entire weekend seemed like a fairytale that was too good to be true anyhow. It’s more poetic this way.

In the interest of time (and the blurriness of my vodka-jagger-brewskie-soaked memory) I’ll give you the abridged version of my weekend:

To get the party started off right, Lady R. rented a stretch hummer limo to drive us Lil’ Kim style from Bushwick to the Sayville Ferry. Between the 10 of us, we split 5 bottle of champagne. With full bladders, we asked the limo driver to make a pit stop. He pulled over to a rest area where we assumed there’d be a bathroom. There wasn’t. Instead there was a hole in the fence for people to climb through if they needed a little privacy from the freeway. Thankfully, my bladder could wait. Those with smaller bladders paid the price. My F.I.B.F. Tom stepped in human shit. (I’m not gonna tell you what that acronym stands for. You’ll just have to guess…)

Once on the ferry (fairy?) we moved on to a bottle of Jagger that we passed around and took shots out of for pretty much the entire 20 minute ride. This being my first time to Fire Island, I didn’t know what to expect. I knew that it was an entire island of fags (flamers = fire, get it?) But what I didn’t know about these fags was that the majority of them would be semi-wealthy Chelsea Queens in their early to mid-thirties. It was pretty obvious that we were going to be the younger, white-trash fags that would cause some raised eyebrows (and not in a good way) all weekend long. This was a fact that 1.) Came true and 2.) I was loving.

Our house was a mile down from Fag Central (the Pines) in a secluded area of the beach. It was if we had the entire island to ourselves. I took us a good 45 minutes to get there, as we were drunk and walking down the beach with our luggage. Lady R. tried to give me a piggyback ride, but I fell off of him because I thought he was going to drop me in the ocean.

Once we finally arrived at the house we celebrated by sitting up on the roof and drinking more. It was hot out, and we all knew how important it was to stay well hydrated. I had only known them for a few hours, but all of Robert’s best friends now seemed like my best friends.

After a few hours of chillaxing with my new besties, we decided to head down to the opposite side of the island (Cherry Grove) to eat at some restaurant that an old co-worker of theirs worked at. It was a long, long walk. Not everyone made it to the end.

Full up on booze, everyone ordered appetizers instead of entrees. And of course, more drinks. As we moved in from the patio to the bar, things got crazy and they never stopped. When I try and recall everything exactly as it happened, my brain starts to feel drunk again. Instead of being chronological or linear, it plays out like a series of muddled flashbacks or a crazy-ass montage. Kinda like this, minus the hard drugs. (P.S. Robert, you’re totally the Ellen Burstyn.)

What I do recall happening is this: Robert and the girls got naked at the bar, (especially funny since people we eating at tables not 10 feet away.) We got kicked out of one bar after Renee pushed Robert into the pool and Robert returned the favor. Sarah bum-rushed the karaoke stage and busted up her knee. F.I.B.F. and I engaged in a little too much PDA. After Sarah and Renee pretended to be lesbians, a real life dyke started stalking them. We all got lost trying to get back and we walked through a patch of brambles. We ran into some woman who was sitting on the boardwalk in her motorized wheelchair, not moving, because her battery had died.

After a crazy Friday, we decided to tone it down a notch on Saturday. There was beach time, rooftop time and boardwalk time. We decided to stay on our side of the island for the night, having a BBQ and drinks at the house. Around 11pm F.I.B.F., Renee and I all decided to lay down “for a few minutes.” I woke up at 2:30am. All three of us were sleeping the short way on a bed full of sand.

Sunday morning F.I.B.F and I woke up early to head back the big island. Except for a helicopter or plane, we took just about every mode of transportation there was to get back: ferry, van, train, subway. F.I.B.F. and I parted ways and told each other we’d always have the island…

Usually when I get back from such a wonderful vacation I immediately become depressed. But such was not the case this time, for I knew that my weekend was only half over. Sunday night I had a dinner date/sleepover with the Good Doctor and Monday Jeffrey and I were having our first (and last) Bed-Stuy Backyard BBQ.

I promised myself not to blog about the Good Doctor, and I’m now running late for work (natch) so I don’t have time to blog about our BBQ. For those details, you’ll have to visit Jeffrey’s Blog.

Next update: My new iPod!