Friday we went to the MOMA where, among the exhibits, we learned about a kevlar head mask and a big puffy protestor protector outfit for surviving baton hits to the body.

We also looked at some superflat.

Jeff saw a condom applicator and we wondered at the genius.

Then we sat in an outdoor cafe near Strawberry Fields in Central Park with our receding Jameson hangovers and, our red-eye California flight lags, which the good weather and company were quickly healing. I sipped a Bengali Six Points and ate some nachos.

At the party the next day there were so many great people. I stayed away from tequila so as to remain upright. But I still rode the bad decision train all the way to good.

And speaking of ride, we traveled in a minivan we briefly called Rusty Trombone. But that was too dirty, so we just shortened it to Rusty. But my inner 12-year-old still thought Trombone when I said it.

We spent all Sunday recovering and it wasn’t enough.

My house was full like my heart. And I am inspired now. And held over until next time.