This is what they like to call “live-blogging”. I call it “I have nothing else to do in the Kansas City Airport because my United flight back to Dulles was delayed four hours”. That is not a typo. FOUR HOURS. There are only so many pages I can read of celebrity magazines The Economist before I get bored and need to see what’s been happening on the Interwebs since I’ve been offline the past five days.

I traveled to St. Joseph, MO, a small city near Kansas City, to visit The Princess’ family and celebrate the Christian Hanukkah known as Christmas. It’s only the third Christmas I have ever celebrated in my life (my second in St. Joe) and it is a fun time each and every time.

From what I can tell, Christmas involves a lot of snow, gobs of ham, turkey, and biscuits and gravy, awkward conversations with family members you barely remember, a 24-hour A Christmas Story marathon on TBS, sibling bickering, a shitload of beautifully wrapped presents, watching family members dance to Soulja Boy, and the inevitable passive-aggressive prying from The Princess’ mom over when exactly we’re going to make her a grandma.

Our moms, though they have never met, recently became BFFs. They e-mail each other nearly every day and hatch plots to make us procreate. My mom has told me she doesn’t even care anymore about marriage, she just wants an expensive and ungrateful pooping/crying organism to dote over. I know we are not the only ones who feel . I usually try to distract the moms’ not-so-subtle pleas by reminding them they have other children to harass.

It is an odd feeling returning home (in 3 1/2 hours) after hanging out for nearly a week in your PJs and feeling warm and toasty a thousand miles away from your real life and even more real responsibilities. The Princess, after dropping me off at the airport and driving into the city with her dad, offered to come back to the airport to retrieve me. I told her that would be silly and that I’d prefer hanging out at the airport anyway.

I haven’t really missed checking my e-mail or blog or fantasy hockey team. In fact, I realized how truly insignificant these Web-based diversions really are. Still, it’s just nice to get some time alone to kick back at the airport, where I don’t know anyone and I can people watch and Web surf uninterrupted.

Of course, it’s not exactly like being at home. Though I appreciate KCI’s free Wi-Fi service, the airport won’t let me access certain sites. What Would Tyler Durden Do?, the male version of Pink is the New Blog, “has been categorized as Pornography”. Maybe it’s because it shows fake naked photos of Hayden Panettiere or maybe it’s because the site is obsessed with Jessica Alba’s breasts (who isn’t?).

In any case, I’m sure I have been flagged as a pervert and am being tracked online as we speak. I’m no computer expert, so if that is possible and KCI authorities are watching my Web surfing activities, I just want to say I love your small-as-shit airport and thanks for the free Interweb service. No perverts here.

Looks like I have a lot of blogs to catch up on and a lot of weird-looking people to watch here at the airport. Maybe I’ll head down to the bar and ask Chiefs fans why their team sucks, or maybe I’ll head to the CNBC shop and pick out the new issue of Esquire. Oh, look, there’s a little boy throwing a tantrum! I hope he’s on my flight.

There’s also a Cinnabon store here in case I feel like spending my remaining time here in the airport shitter. I’m sure they have Wi-Fi in there, too.

Three hours to go…

PHOTO CREDIT

DC Blogs is hosting a and asked for submissions of photos that inspire you. There are many things that inspire me in this world: catching a great baseball game; listening to my girlfriend recite entire passages from her favorite books; saving ungrateful baby birds.

But if I had to choose two things — and photos — that reflect my inspirations, I’d have to go with traveling and writing.

I took this photo of the pier in San Marcos, Guatemala, during my trip to El Pais de la Eterna Primavera this summer. We stayed for three days in Lago Atitlan, a truly amazing place where we rode horses, stayed in an apartment built into the side of a mountain, and kayaked in this beautifully clear and stoic lake.

I took this photo while visiting my girlfriend’s parents during Easter. Her dad owns this old, barely functional typewriter that sparked memories of my favorite Hemingway stories. I still type on my laptop like I did when I was 7 and my uncle taught me how to type on his old typewriter, one that looked much like this one, pounding away loudly at the keys and infuriating my co-workers.

It is our Thanksgiving tradition, to leave the city every year. we went to Playa del Carmen, Mexico, for a friend’s wedding. The year before that, we went to New York City.

This year, The Princess and I decided to repeat Turkey 2005 and headed back to the City, the only City, to celebrate an apocryphal story that helps our children every year resupply the nation’s dwindling “turkey hand” epidemic.

I woke up sick as fuck on Wednesday morning. “Sick as fuck” has a particular meaning to me that might vary, to a certain degree, from what it would mean to you. To me, “sick as fuck” means a head cold that has melted my brain to the point that I act like a helpless, unwanted newborn.

The Princess, a middle school teacher whose Job-like patience might explain why she hasn’t systematically killed every one of her students yet, doted on me. Her doting, though, consisted of telling me to “suck it up”, “be a man”, and “sleep on the couch”. (While reading this excerpt, the Princess told me: “You’re a wimp when you’re sick.”)

I did sleep on the couch. And Thursday morning, despite hallucinations that Nicole Kidman and a polar bear were after my Golden Compass, I woke up at 7am to leave DC. A nearly five-hour trip can be pretty taxing when you can’t focus your eyes on the traffic on I-95. It can be even worse when your head cold makes you forget entire stretches of time. Luckily, The Princess’ Honda Accord gave us a moment of unmitigated glee when its odometer surpassed the 190,000-mile mark. With this kind of excitement to entertain us, we just knew it was going to be a fun weekend.

Day One (Thanksgiving Day)

Lincoln Tunnel is traffic-free…the streets of New York are dirty after the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade…thanks to my friends Blue and BK Broiler, for letting us crash at your awesome pad in Union Square…damn it, Strand Bookstore is closed…hot chocolate from Max Brenner and an unseasonably warm afternoon of walking around…dinner in Chinatown…General Tso’s Chicken and eggplant with broccoli at Wo Hop…some old man sits down at our booth across from me while The Princess is in the bathroom…and he doesn’t say a word.

Day Two (Friday)

Brunch at Le Pain Quotidien…finally, two hours shopping at the Strand…not enough time, only buy five books…Black Friday on Broadway Ave. is not a pretty sight…late lunch at Katz’s Deli, where they filmed Meg Ryan faking an orgasm…we sit one table over from it and hear one “I’ll have what she’s having” joke too many…best matzo ball soup I have ever had…

…karaoke that night at Sing Sing…The Princess sings like a gifted lark…with my nasally head cold scraping my vocal chords, I sound like a wounded seagull…still manage to sing my song, “God Bless the U.S.A.” by Lee Greenwood (click to watch YouTube video of my awful singing and The Princess laughing maniacally at me)…Udon noodles for late dinner…mine is served with a raw egg.

Day Three (Saturday)

The Princess goes shopping down Broadway while I sleep in…she buys me bagel with lox and cream cheese for breakfast…we walk to Union Square Park and Greenwich Village…visit Porto Rico Importing Company (the best smelling coffee since I was in Costa Rica)…buy way too much cheese, sausage, and olive oil at Murray’s Cheese…The Princess tries to sneak into a guided tour of how they make cheese…share some Pinkberry frozen yogurt…watch Hogan Knows Best and eat amazing meal…call an audible and decided to beat Sunday’s traffic by leaving NYC that night…get home at 12:20am, great call.

Day Four (Sunday)

While thousands of people jam the tunnels out of NYC, the New Jersey Turnpike, and I-95, The Princess and I sleep in…spend the day relaxing, reading, watching DVDs, laughing, wrestling…go to sleep early…Nyquil knocks me out.

This trip, we decided, was not so much a vacation to New York, but more of a vacation from our lives in DC that just happened to be in NYC. We didn’t do anything too “touristy” like visit the State of Liberty or even walk through Central Park. We just enjoyed being together in a city we both love.

How much do you know about Guatemala? I mean, how much do you really know about El Pais de la Eterna Primavera?

Sure, you might be smart enough to remember that it’s in Central America, but could you pick it out on a blank map? You know Guatemalans speak Spanish, but can you name one of the dozens of Mayan languages still spoken there today?

You know they love soccer and Jesus (not necessarily in that order) but do you remember a time when the national team ever played in the World Cup or the Son of God did NOT molest Scott Bakula?

You might have heard that but do you know that often this feeling is merely envy masquerading as hate because mi gente have been known to ?

It’s ok to admit you don’t know much about Guatemala. I didn’t either until I spent an entire week traveling within its borders. I spent time in Quetzaltenango, also known as Xela (“Adams Morgan Chick”, you ignorant slut, it IS pronounced SHELL-a by Spanish-speakers), visited Antigua, the country’s tourist-infested version of Disneyland, swam in the soothing waters of Lago Atitlan, and got robbed during a six-hour trek through Panajachel, Solola, and Chimaltanengo.

Here’s what I learned, in pictures:

Chilling on a hammock in a restaurant/bar is a great way to reflect on how calm your stomach is at the moment and how much it’ll hurt later after you eat seemingly safe food like bread.

Gallo Cerveza : Guatemala as Budweiser : United States. Now you can take your SATs.

Guate children learn how to ride motorcycles early.

The Guatemalan National Soccer team needs a better field if it ever wants to qualify for the World Cup.

The team also needs better players.

Watching Argentina lose 3-0 to Brazil in la Copa America final in an Antigua bar, after writing on one’s blog about how Brazil can suck it, and bragging to everyone for days about how much better el abilceleste team is, does not feel good.

Erecting a sign warning people not to litter lest they receive a Q50 fine (about $7) is a sure-fire way of ensuring the place will get littered.

Chicken buses, despite the danger of getting robbed, are fun. Especially when you squeeze seven or eight people in a row designed for four passengers.

The volcanic hot springs in Las Fuentes Georginas are soothing and warm. Unless you accidentally swallow its sulfur-laced water. Then it burns.

I didn’t know this, but Christ is coming to Guatemala.

Lake Atitlan, especially San Marcos, is a beautiful place.

Guatemalans love Jew gas.

Getting off a horse named Lucia, after galloping around Lake Atitlan for nearly two hours, makes my ass look juicy.

Hotels sell condoms and tampons for Q30 each ($4).

Bus service stations are brutally honest. This is the Guatemalan equivalent of the White House displaying our President’s likely IQ score on the South lawn.

And, finally, Guatemalan police will write up a police report for you if and when you are robbed. It might take them 11 hours and they might need to wait for the Ink Store to open, but you will get the report.

was wrong: Guatemalans love Argentines. Especially our money.

My otherwise amazing week-long trip to Guatemala with The Princess (more on that tomorrow) was capped off Friday night with the discovery that my wallet was stolen. An online check of my bank account activity confirmed my suspicions — somewhere between Panajachel, Solola, Chimaltenango, and Antigua, sometime during the six hours it took us to travel the seemingly insurmountable distance, at some point while riding four different chicken buses, someone lifted mi billetera out of my backpack.

The thieves were good, too, since my backpack was on me or near me at all times. Maybe they took advantage while I took a Dramamine-fueled nap, or when chatting with the locals about my trip, or while teaching Mayan children some English phrases.

And they were fast. By the time I was able to contact my bank and credit card companies, they had spent about $2,000 on a shopping spree of what appeared to be mostly electronics and gas.

My credit card company urged me to file a police report since they would be investigating my fraud claim.

The Princess’ guidebook to Guatemala, on page 278, gives the following advice when reporting a robbery or theft:

After a theft you may need a statement from the police for your insurance company. Tell them: ‘Yo quisiera poner una acta de robo’ (‘I’d like to report a robbery’). This should make it clear that you merely want a piece of paper and aren’t going to ask the police to do anything active.

Read that last sentence again:

This should make it clear that you merely want a piece of paper and aren’t going to ask the police to do anything active.

Of course not. Why would I want the police to help me in any way?

After canceling my bank cards, The Princess and I took a rickety tuk-tuk at 8:30pm to the “mobile police unit” in Antigua, a dingy bungalow where two police women told us to sit down and someone would come by in “diez minutos” to take my info. (Everything in Guatemala takes ten minutes.) They continued to watch telenovelas on a mini-TV, so I decided to take time to read their Jesus-themed motivational posters plastered on the wall. My favorite one read:

“If you’ve lost money, you’ve lost a little; if you’ve lost friends, you’ve lost a lot; but if you’ve lost your faith in God, you’ve lost everything.”

A police-sponsored tuk-tuk finally sputtered by and picked us up, taking us to a second police station near Antigua’s bus depot. This location was called Politur and, I was told, specialized in crime against tourists.

We walked into the stone building and met a young police officer who asked me where I was assaulted. I told him I wasn’t assaulted, that I only wanted to report a theft. He tentatively took out a nubby pencil and began taking notes on a piece of previously used scratch paper.

He asked for my passport and wrote down my name. Then he wrote down my date of birth. He stared at it for 30 seconds. What incredible police work could he be doing so soon, I thought, what astute display of crime-solving could he already be up to?

“Treinta-y-dos años!” he shouted with glee, after carefully divining my age.

“Si, tengo treinta-y-dos años,” I replied.

He continued for several minutes scribbling down information before I told him all I wanted was a police report. He called who I assumed to be his supervisor. A middle-aged man walked in and began to ask me the same questions his underling had already asked.

I asked him for his name as politely as I could. He proudly swept back his jacket to reveal his name badge barnacled on his clay-brown shirt.

“Jorge,” he replied. “Soy el Director.”

I turned to the officer taking down my information and asked him for his name. I expected him to reply with a similar, authoritarian-sounding honorific as well, like “Agente Oficial Perez” or “Señor Agente Dominguez”. Instead, he smiled broadly and answered simply, “Sebastian!”, showing the same zeal as a Boy Scout who’s cooked his first marshmallow.

I explained that all I wanted was an official-looking document showing that a theft was committed against me. They looked at me like I had requested to meet the Pope.

We need a voucher from the bank showing that this crime was committed, Jorge explained.

I don’t have a voucher from the bank, I told him. The crime happened because I’m telling you it happened.

You’ll need to come back tomorrow, Jorge said.

I can’t, I’m leaving for the U.S. All I need is a police report.

Well, Jorge answered, the printer’s out of ink.

The Princess had to stand up and walk away because she thought she was going to laugh so hard.

Out of ink, I thought, I can’t get a friggin’ police report because they’re out of ink?

We’ll have it for you tomorrow, Jorge added, come by at 8 or 9am.

It’s 10pm, I thought, is the Ink Store opening at some point in the middle of the night?

I thanked them for their time and left. A couple of police officers gave us a ride to our hotel room in the back of a police truck, eliciting some stares from passers-by near the market.

The next morning we returned at 9am. The police report wasn’t done. Jorge walked by me without even a “Buenos dias”. Sebastian, now in civilian clothes, said “Hola” and walked out, ending his shift. I sat down at the same desk as the night before, in front of a new police officer, and asked for my police report for the robbery.

Ok, he said, taking out some scratch paper. Where were you assaulted?

The police report I eventually received:

The Politur station in Antigua:

Politur’s fleet of tuk-tuks:

The Princess left yesterday for Guatemala, where she plans to spend three weeks learning a dialect of Spanish I will then have to deprogram when she gets back. She’ll be living with a host family in Quetzaltenango, nicknamed Xela (pronounced SHELL-a) and attending a language school.

I’ll be joining her in two weeks for a one-week vacation visit.

Because The Princess is a girl, she likes to plan. She labored over which guidebook to buy, wrote out a long list of items to take, and researched excursions we can take when we’re there.

Because I’m a boy, I did nothing.

“You haven’t read my Lonely Planet book on Guatemala yet,” she told me a couple of nights ago. “I’m leaving on Sunday with the book.”

“I don’t need a travel guide. I already know everything about Guatemala that I need to know,” I explained, pointing to my head.

In truth, everything I know about Guatemala I learned from mi amigo . And El Google. For example:

Everyone in Guatemala has a glorious moustache. Below is a picture I have of El Guapo. As you can see, his moustache truly is beautiful. I will print, cut out, and take this picture with me when I leave for The Land of Eternal Spring so that the locals know we are like hermanos. I’m sorry to break your anonymity, EG, but that moustache should not be kept under wraps.

Guatemalan soccer fans worship Argentina. As you can clearly see in the photo below, the Guatemalan on the left is wearing Argentina’s 2002 World Cup “away” jersey. Can’t blame the kid, though, since his own country has qualified for the most important sporting event in the world a total of 0 times in its 88-year existence.

Guatemalans love “Chicken Buses”. These are retired school buses deemed too unsafe by American school systems and converted for use as public buses. They pimp ‘em out, as the kids say, and pack as many people and luggage as possible inside. A couple of times a month, a bus packed with riders and chickens will go careening over a mountainous cliff. I plan on riding these Chicken Buses.

American women often kidnap Guatemalan children. Many go to Guatemala under the veil of teaching English only to snatch these helpless kids. This is a national epidemic, made worse by the gringas’ use of blankets and whacky facial expressions to take the poor children.

Art in Guatemala is all about Jesus. And, apparently, it’s also all about Jesus groping a white man who looks a lot like Scott Bakula from Quantum Leap.

Cruises are popular in Guatemala. For the price of 25 quetzales ($3.18) , you can take a riverside jaunt along the border of Mexico, a country to which some Guatemalans have been known to illegally immigrate.

That’s all I know for now about Guatemala and Quetzaltenango, but I’m sure I’ll learn more after The Princess reports back her adventures and El Guapo and Miguel pay me a secret visit in the middle of the night to kick my ass.

The Princess and I went to Chicago this past weekend for her college friend’s wedding and to celebrate my 32nd birthday.

Because I’m starting my awesome new job today and don’t want my bosses to figure out so soon what a lazy goofball I am, I can’t write a real post. So enjoy the slideshow I made of my favorite pics from the weekend.

And then get back to work.

Passover, also known as “Pesach” in Hebrew, or “The Jewish Easter” by some of my goy friends, finishes tonight. It is an eight-day celebration that includes never-ending stories at dinner and eating cardboard. Passover is kind of a big deal to my Chosen Peeps, and aside from Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah, is the most guilt-inducing important holiday of the year.

Passover, to me, always meant one thing: family. So in years when I don’t see them, I tend not to celebrate it or attend any seders. Also, remembering all of Passover’s rituals is harder than memorizing the Periodic Table of Elements, so I usually lack the motivation.

This year, though, I decided to celebrate Passover in the most special way I could think of that would honor my people and venerate tradition: by celebrating Easter.

I flew to St. Joseph, Missouri, with The Princess this weekend under the pretense of surprising her dad on his 60th birthday, but really I wanted to Jew it up in the Midwest on the day Jeebus pulled off a Houdini and hightailed it to Heaven.

Since this would be my first Easter, and since I would be representing the whole of Judaism in a town that is roughly 100% Christian, I planned accordingly.

I started by meeting up with a fellow Jew, Foxymoron. If there is one thing Jews are good at, the stereotype goes, is making money. I resent that generalization because it is steeped in anti-Semitism and hatred. But it is also true. So Foxymoron and I sat on the Metro platform and conjured up some cash, as all Jews are capable of doing.

My next step in celebrating Easter was to eat lots of marshmallow Peeps. My friend H informed me that the company that makes them is Jewish, which is ironic since they’re made specifically to eat on the day Jeebus saved us all.

“I want me some dreidel peeps. Or Star of David peeps,” she wrote me. Don’t we all, H, don’t we all?

When I got to St. Jo, Easter weekend was in full swing. I decided to assimilate by helping hide the Easter eggs. Soon, The Princess’ ginormous family came over for supper. Children ate chocolate bunnies and found nearly all the eggs.

I had gone shopping earlier for matzo at the local Hy-Vee, which, for those of you not from the Midwest, is like Giant only not dirty. To my surprise, they carried matzo. When I inspected closer, though, it had these words printed in the corner: NOT FOR PASSOVER.

What? Unkoshered matzo? What the cock was that shit?

“Oh well,” I said. “No one will know the difference.”

I was right. After the Christians were nearly all Eastered out, I hid the non-Passover matzo and explained to everyone that the kids had to search for it and that whomever found it could then ask adults for money. They tore apart The Princess’ parents’ house looking for something they had never seen.

When one of the kids found it, I gave her a dollar. I told her she could eat it, too, to which she replied, “Is it chocolate?”

“No, it’s unleavened bread.”

As I watched that little girl drop the matzo on the floor in disgust, I couldn’t help but think of how proud I was that I could Jewify someone’s Easter. I had succeeded where Moses had failed.

It was a Passover/Easter miracle.

Wedding season has started early this year.

The Princess and I went to one of my oldest friends’ weddings this weekend in –- wait for it -– Tampa, Florida. This is a friend who I have known since second grade but whose was marred by the presence of his jackhole buddies, aggressive strippers, and roulette tables that hated me.

Needless to say, I wasn’t looking forward to Round II of Big I’s wedding extravaganza.

But, as it turned out, we had an amazing time. I caught up with another old friend, Scotty, and his family (including his 5-year-old son Seth who won the weekend’s unofficial popularity contest), met Big I’s wife, a sweet woman who converted to Judaism, drank LOTS of free alcohol, and ate at a Waffle House!

We also met the Ecuadorian National World Cup soccer team, which was staying at our hotel and lost to the U.S. 3-1 on Sunday in an international friendly. It wasn’t like seeing the Argentine national team, but at least it wasn’t .

Here is a photo essay of the weekend.

Here is our view from our hotel room, overlooking Tampa’s beautiful 60 freeway. We spent a lot of time gazing at this magnificent vision.

The Princess poses with midfielder Luis Saritama, who I’m pretty sure goosed her while I wasn’t looking. His nickname on the team is the Roadrunner, probably because he likes to paint murals of three-dimensional tunnels on the sides of large rocks. Or because he’s fast.

This Kremlin-like building facing the life-size relief of John F. Kennedy made me think uncomfortably about the Bay of Pigs crisis. Until I realized it was some botanical garden-type place.

The Princess and I at the wedding. The arrow points to a boat of drunk guys fishing nearby who decided to jeer the ceremony. All was forgiven when they yelled “Mazel Tov!” when Big I stomped on the wine glass.

Here I am posing with Scotty’s son, Seth, who was not only the ring-bearer, but also the scene stealer as he break-danced during the reception and, overall, acted cute as hell.

I think Seth has a future as a photographer. He took this phenomenal picture of Big I and his wife with my camera, the little bastard.

Seth also channeled Casanova and asked the bride’s little sister to dance, which she did reluctantly. Reminds me of me.

Big I and his bride really love cake. No need to be so aggressive, though.

At the after-party, after knocking back a few too many over cigars, Scotty decided to throw me into the hotel pool. I was able to not only fright him off, but push him in first fully clothed, much to the delight of dozens of spectators. This, of course, didn’t stop him from coming after me and pushing me in – but not before I got rid of my coat, wallet, and cell phone. Scotty wasn’t so lucky.

Mmm, Waffle House.

I should have known what my weekend in New York was going to be like when I settled into my Greyhound bus Friday afternoon.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced the driver over the bus intercom, “welcome to Greyhound. There is no smoking, no drinking, and no drug use in coach. This includes the bathroom.”

No drug use in the bus bathroom? Is this enough of a problem to warrant an official warning from a Greyhound representative? Do drivers find sufficient pipes and dime bags to necessitate a company-wide policy?

Aside from the 6 ½ hour drive on ice-coated highways, the trip was uneventful. I read, napped, and watched the hilariously awful Legend of Zorro. I think my favorite part of the movie was when Antonio Banderas tried to play Zorro. Hys. Terical. Still, I was able to enjoy a double seat most likely resulting from people too afraid to ride a bus during a predicted snowstorm. .

My trip was a last-minute decision to see my best friend Blue, a fellow Los Angeles transplant I’ve known since 3rd grade who lives with his girlfriend BK Broiler in Union Square. He is known on this blog for .

I arrived at the Port Authority at 7:30pm Friday and struggled to find the right subway train (thanks for the bad advice, Community Service Policeman, and lack of subway maps). Once aboard the train, I stood against a wall and saw a small, old man sit down across from me.

“Man, I gotta get out of this city,” he declared, seemingly to me.

This is great, I thought. I’ll enjoy this 10-minute subway ride by engaging a real, live New Yorker. We’ll discuss local politics, culture, and the weather.

“I gotta go to Canada,” he continued.

“Oh yeah?” I replied. “What’s up in Canada?”

“Canada doesn’t have any chinks, wops, or spics.”

Uh…oh.

“We’re going to all be speaking Spanish soon because of all the Mexicans in this city,” he continued.

Oh, God, I know I don’t believe in you, but if you exist, you must strike down this racist, deranged douchebag right now.

“We’re all going to be Communist, too, thanks to all the Chinese.”

Please, please, please, let this ride finish. Oh, god, everyone’s looking at me. Do they think I’m with this insane, xenophobic fucker? That guy standing next to me just moved to the other side of the train. Should I follow him? Why won’t this nut stop talking?

A l o o o n g subway ride later, I arrived at Union Square and met up with Blue. We headed to Duke’s, a casual bar/restaurant with several TVs showing March Madness games. We ordered some beers, ate some ribs, and bragged about our masterful skill at picking out our brackets.

At one point, I went outside and stood next to a couple arguing. The girlfriend went back inside after being unable to convince her boyfriend he was wrong about something. The guy, named Ali, turned to me and said, “Man, my girl is driving me crazy!” Then he offered me some pot.

“I love New York,” I told Blue when I went back inside Duke’s. “Where else can you hear a racist tirade and be offered drugs within an hour?”

Saturday was spent walking around the city, going to The Strand (of course), and watching basketball games all day. Sports-watching often results in some pretty inane guy commentary, and Blue and I were no exception.

“How many NCAA champs have been number one seeds?” I asked Blue. “I think 60%.”

“No way, more like 50%,” he said. We looked it up. He was right. Fourteen of the 28 champs (since seeding began) have been number one seeds, exactly 50%.

This was followed by more mindless questions.

“How many players are in the tournament?” Blue asked.

“768,” I calculated.

“Of those 768, how many do you think you could beat up?”

I thought about it for several seconds. “Two.”

“That many?”

Later that night, Blue and I met up with some of his friends at a bar/club called Manhatta. That is NOT a typo. It’s Manhattan without the “n”.

“I cannot go to a place called Manhatta,” I told Blue futilely. “It sounds so pretentious. Besides, I’ve already been to a club called Washington D.”

Not having anticipated that we’d go “out”, I only brought sneakers, which meant I had to borrow a pair of Blue’s size 12 shoes.

We waited nearly half an hour for a cab, walking around city streets, me complaining about my clown shoes pinching me, and competing with other taxi hopefuls for the few empty caps on duty on a Saturday night. Finally, we found one and headed to Manhatta (turned out, it was within walking distance, on Bleeker and Bowery).

Though our names had been on a list, we arrived a few minutes too late and had to pay a $10 cover. We walked in Manhatta and I immediately was reminded of Bright Lights, Big City, especially Michael J. Fox’s drug-fueled nights out clubbing. This place had the red mood lighting going, men wearing expensive, chest-bearing shirts not buttoned high enough, and women with heels so tall I half-expected them to tip over at any moment.

I was forced to check my coat by some burly dude and we headed downstairs, a small basement playing the loudest dance music I’ve ever heard and featuring several drunken women dancing around the very poles holding up the ceiling. Yup, I thought sarcastically, this is totally my scene.

Blue bought me some liquid courage in the form of white tequila shots and we met up with his friends. Soon enough, some guy brushed up against my crotch and then offered one of Blue’s friends Laura some cocaine out of his hand.

We danced and drank until nearly 5am and then walked home, staggering into Taco Bell for some Double Decker tacos and passing out at home watching SportsCenter.

I awoke Sunday at 1:30pm and we ordered Chinese food. “You can get anything delivered in New York,” Blue told me.

“Yeah, in DC, too.”

We watched the afternoon games and posed more “interesting” questions to each other.

“If you laid down every street in New York end-to-end, how far across the country do you think it would go?” Blue asked me.

“Probably to the West Coast,” I guessed.

“The answer, apparently, is all the way to Japan. But I don’t see how that’s possible.”

Thanks for the shabby nobility of a great weekend, Blue. It’s too bad you were too scared to face me in ping pong.

PHOTOS TOMORROW.