Modern Art! Makes Me! Want To Rock Out!

Good Weekend. Art Brut invaded jaded New York City this weekend to spread their message of hope: "It's not irony, it's not rock and roll, we're just talking to the kids!"

I went up Saturday to D and K's (names abbreviated to protect Dave and Kate's respective identities) place in Brooklyn (a far cry, incidentally, from Brooklyhem). D and I pre-gamed for the evening with Svedka martinis. Lots of Svedka martinis. Too many, perhaps. Fellow Davidson alum Emily (not Kane) came over for burritos and madness (but mostly burritos).



Emily and D had a going away party to hit up, and on the way D made sure to proposition one of his elderly neighbors and generally alert the public to our presence. We got to the party and D's dinner made a surprise guest appearance on the floor outside the bathroom, at which point we were asked to leave. D and I caught a taxi and headed for the Tribeca Grand hotel. Riding in the cab, I couldn't help but notice D throwing up on the outside of the window, but I thought it best to not mention this to the driver quite yet. I gave the dude a big tip after he dropped us off.

Inside I had a Red Stripe (for fucking $7) and D grabbed a water before heading to the bathroom, where he remained for about two hours (we estimate). Meanwhile, I watched the DJs and periodically checked on D. Around 12:30, my life started...



Seriously, if you haven't heard this album, you're an idiot. And if Art Brut ever plays near you, go. It will Change. Yer. Life. Eddie Argos, rocking the ironic suit and the worst (best) stache I've ever seen, oozed joy. He threatened to be "very disappointed" if, on Art Brut's return to the city he found that each and every one of us hadn't formed a band.


Ready, Art Brut?


Look at us! We formed a band!


Just talking to the kids.


I've seen her naked TWICE!


Gonna grab a piece of Ashlee Simpson.


I'm drinking Hennessey with Morrissey!

Having been thoroughly rocked, I went back to the bathroom to collect D. But D was gone. I searched around the whole downstairs as the enormity of the crisis sank in. I had left my cell phone in the apartment ("I won't need my phone, I'll be with D.") along with my map, so I was a bit stuck. A thorough search of the venue yielded no D, so I struck out to find his apartment. Now, finding a subway in NYC at 2 am is harder than you might think, but I eventually caught the right one. It's a couple blocks then from the train to D and K's apartment, which I mention in case any Lehigh kids are reading this. Yeah, that's right, I wandered around Brooklyn at 3 am without getting stabbed. Anyway, I got to the building and wasn't sure what their number was, so I decided to ring the wrong apartment. The kind fellow in the wrong apartment then told me what the right apartment was and K let me in (naturally, she was a bit confused as to what was going on and who was knocking on her door at 3 am, but she didn't pepper-spray me, which was very kind of her). And there, passed out on his bed, was D. That saved me a rescue mission back into Manhattan.

In the morning, I had the following voicemail from D on my phone: "Hey man, I'm outside....uggghhhh."

We came to our senses and hit up MoMA this afternoon.