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Well, lots going on today in New York, as you know.

First, there’s tomorrow’s Giants parade. It starts at 11am, and the G-men, victors of the Super Bowl, will get their moment in the sun (figuratively speaking, if you believe the weather reports) down the Canyon of Heroes. I’m glad to see the city officially dropped the old policy of no parades for the local football teams because their stadium’s in New Jersey. Look, I understand why the West Side Stadium got killed. I was kind of for it, but it was a perfectly legit decision not to do it. (Although I have my doubts about the motivations and the political machinery that killed it.) But that means everyone needs to shut the hell up about whether the Giants (and Jets) are really a “New York” team because they play in New Jersey. We didn’t want to build a stadium, so that’s that. Mayor Bloomberg is acting accordingly and giving them a parade, because the Giants represent New York. They just go home to the suburbs at night.

Next up, there is something going on in town called Fashion Week. There are shows, I hear, featuring hideously expensive clothes and collections for the fall. I cop to knowing absolutely nothing about this, and as a guy who can barely keep his pants from ripping, I don’t think I’ll ever be. The closest I’ve ever come to displaying fashion sense is mocking the suits of Michael Irvin and Shannon Sharpe on NFL pregame shows. (I thought Fox announcer Joe Buck’s lavender tie was a little odd, to be honest.) But fashion people and their shows and their catty comments and their parties and their miles and miles of fabric are running around town all around you.

Finally, it’s Super Tuesday, where a large number of states will be holding their primaries and a few caucuses as we move closer to figuring out who will be our next president. Soon it’ll be a battle between a woman/a black guy vs. a sarcastic and cranky old guy/a Mormon/a former fat preacher endorsed by Chuck Norris. Either way, the next president of this country is going to be something a little bit different…okay, if it’s a Democrat, way different.

Unfortunately, I have this real job that will probably keep me away from much involvement in any of this. I am not registered with a party, so I don’t vote in  primaries…as I have always explained, I don’t like to join groups.  The parade starts at 11, and I have too much work to considering skipping out on it, and I have no connections to the fashion industry. Although if I ever met the men’s designer at H&M, I would like to shake his hand for forcing me back into the gym. I’m apparently not ready to give up my gay-style skinny fitting clothes just yet.

It’s too bad, because if you could involve all three in a story about a wet and unseasonably warm Tuesday in New York, that would be something. Maybe it can be done. After all, it’s not a far cry to think that maybe after drinking at a post-parade bar, your friend tells you about this party you can crash, and that there happen to be models there, so you find a way in, and not only do you see some of the models, you already see some of the Giants trying to pick up on ’em. But you don’t care, you still want an autograph, so you stroll up. But one of the Giants thinks you’re “salting the earth” and shoves you. Being that they’re huge guys, you can do nothing but slink over to the open bar, where you see some tall guy crying into his cell phone and holding a purse. As you order all the Grey Goose and soda you can get your hands on, you realize that it’s Tom Brady, and that he’s trying to drunk dial Bridget Moynahan because he just wants to hear his kid’s voice.

He may be the enemy, but you hate to see a guy in pain, so you walk up and give the guy a hug. At first he’s alarmed, but then he’s relieved, and he cries like he’s never cried before. Still being the good guys that you are, you tell him to man up, because Gisele is coming, and in Brazil, a crying man might as well be a dead one without a penis, and she can’t see him like this. Grateful for your help, he gives you passes to this ‘promotional event’ he was supposed to attend, but doesn’t have the heart to, he’ll just have to curl up in front of the TV with some Whole Foods his manservant better have picked up earlier in the day. And the manservant better have gotten a lot of gravy for that turkey meatloaf.

So you and your friend cab it to the far West Side, and you realize the address Tom gave you was to the Penthouse Club. You walk in and it’s a special event…it’s a Super Sexy Tuesday party, with television screens and strippers everywhere, hosted by…Bill Clinton! One of the partiers tells him he’s being sequestered here by Hillary’s campaign to make sure he doesn’t upstage his wife no matter what the outcome and to make sure he doesn’t say some douchey, race-card-type thing about Obama after his sixth Johnnie Walker Blue on the rocks. Clinton spots you and asks who you are, and you tell the whole Brady story, and Clinton curses Brady for Being a pussy because he was supposed to be his wingman tonight but Gisele has him whipped and beatdown like a mule on his grandmother’s farm. Clinton shrugs, but takes a liking to you, and before you know it, you’re all in the champagne room getting lap dances and drinking Moet straight from the bottle.

Hey! I’ve had stranger Tuesday nights.



  1. don’t forget that it’s fat tuesday as well! make sure clinton has some mardi gras beads.

  2. I sure he was there sunday and monday night, Bex. That’s when it’s supposed to be really good…

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