Just to give you a heads up, I am totally half-assing this post. Mike and I hit up Park City in East Rutherford last night to see The Benjamins play. The band was good as usual, but for some reason we just weren't feeling the place. I think it's because the average age in there must have been about 24. The lead singer actually uttered the words "And now here's some old school for ya'll" and proceeded to play Linkin Park's "Runaway." WTF. I mean at least play something like "Head Like A Hole" by Nine Inch Nails, which came out in 1989 or so NOT fucking 2000.
So Mike turns to me and says "You want to stay for the second set or get some Hungrymans?" I swear, you'd think that after six years of friendship someone would know you by now. It was a question that shouldn't have even been asked. I NEVER turn down good food. Never. It's one of the reasons I don't work in law enforcement or medicine or something like it. We'd be at a crime scene and the body would be clutching a bag of White Castle and there's no way that shit would ever make it to the evidence room. My ass would be locked in a stall in the bathroom, cramming Jalapeno burgers into my mouth like they were turning into pumpkins at midnight.
We bounced at halftime and hit up our favorite diner, which of course has this:
Because really, why shouldn't a diner have a
fully stocked bar loaded with top shelf liquor.
Incidentally, we got a kick out of the fact that there was only a ten cent difference in our bills at Park City and Tops:
I had to climb out of bed, run back to the computer
and make sure I didn't post up Mike's credit card info.
Southern Comfort is my friend.
Afterwards, we thought we'd go work off the open-face roast beef sandwiches slathered with gravy at the gym next door. But wisely thought better of it.
Is it me or is this alleged gym a bit off?
Newark rocks, yo.
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