Last night, two important things happened.
First, I won a contest based on my musical acumen, which, if you know me at all, you realize is a preposterous thing. I know so little about music, people regularly stare at me, slack-jawed, when I admit that I, for example, have no idea who, say, Wheezer is. (Wheezer? Weezer? Case in point.) I never listened to the radio, and until I was in college my music collection consisted of Garth Brooks tapes, They Might Be Giants CDs, a Bert and Ernie 8-track, and the cast recording of Camelot. So asking me something about music is akin to asking Helen Keller about movies.
Nevertheless, during intermission for a wonderful play last night, I answered the question: "Who would you pick to be the new lead singer, to fix Van Halen?" I hemmed and hawed and complained that I know nothing about music. My handsome Patchesboy told me in no uncertain terms that whatever I put down, I was going to win anyway because I always win that kind of thing. I disagreed, but then inpiration struck.
Peaches, yo.
And when it came time to read the winner, they went through the top five (including my boy's pick of Sebastian Bach), out of which a winner would be selected -- but when they got to my Peaches, which was the third name they read, the female guitarist stopped everything, grabbed the rest of the entries, and declared me to be the pre-emptive winner! Because she liked Peaches so much! Hooray for Peaches! And hooray for my new CD that I won! Wheee!!
Also the second thing that happened last night was after the show, our mob was wandering the east village, and suddenly we all noticed -- it was here. The time was upon us! It was, most definitely and undeniably...FLEET WEEK!! Sailors everywhere, in tight white sailorpants and those jaunty little caps. We happily gawked as we walked down the street, and I think that our eyes may have popped just a little bit when we saw the sailors forming a mere backdrop for the two trucks full of hot firemen. It was clearly, as one person put it, a porno waiting to happen, and as another said, something out of a 17-year-old's wet dream. Either description was equally apt, I think, but in the manner that these things tend to not, no wild Chi-Chi La Rue orgy broke out.
Well. Not where I could see one, anyway.