Nic & Jack's Infinite Playlist

This past Friday saw the opening of a new movie called Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist, which is apparently about two young folks who experience one of those magical nights in New York City where the hijinks are caa-raazy!!! and there's the smell of love in the air, which seems to overpower the general stench that randomly pervades the city. By the Law Of Arrested Development, I'm pretty much forced to watch anything that has a member of that show's cast, because the rule goes that "anyone that has a connection to the show = genius". Then again, Michael Cera has had a pretty good track record so far (Superbad was great, and Juno was better than not-bad), so I'm not dreading this requirement so much.

On the other hand, as a new resident of New Yawk,I feel I need to settle this bullshit about the supposedly magical nature of this city that's been a crutch for storytellers for far too long. And what better way to show this than by telling the story of my own infinite playlist from this past Friday.

The day began promisingly enough. By general rule, any day in which you play a game of flag football is a good day (it's in the lost verse of Ice Cube's "Today Was A Good Day", if you want to check). We won by a huge margin, and it was the second week in a row that I accidentally leveled a girl half my size (this is what happens when I stop, and you don't). That, my friends, is a recipe for success. Top it off with a celebratory stop at a bar WITH SKEEBALL, and you've got yourself a good time.


Things fell apart once the sun went down, however. I've always found that the night time is the right time, so this was especially disappointing. As everybody on the team split off to follow their own evening plans, I had to reassess my options. It was then that I decided to do something I never thought I would do, and that was attempt to meet up at a college mini-reunion party. So I cleaned myself up to look somewhat presentable (well, I did what I could), and headed out for this "reunion". That's where the trouble begins.

I will forever assert that New York has one of the worst goddamn subway systems I've ever encountered. It's crowded and smelly, has a really inconsistent schedule, has no maps on the train, and has stations that have multiple names that make it ultra-confusing for the uninformed. And those are the problems that I came up with in about .2 seconds. My problem that night was that I could only find the entrance for the Downtown line and not the Uptown one. Because we absolutely have to have these things separate for some goddamn reason (to give New York credit for one thing, at least "Downtown" and "Uptown" are consistent--unlike Boston's T that has an "inbound" and "outbound" switch). The directions on the sign itself led me to ANOTHER downtown bound train, and so I was forced to look in an 8 block radius for the companion station. It was only after about half an hour of searching that I finally located the station...across the street ducked into a side street. You have to love the fact that newspaper dispensers were able to perfectly block my view.



Alright, so all this work left me with about half an hour left at this mini-reunion. That's not so bad, because I was only planning on a quick visit then stepping out later. The directions I had merely stated that the event was being held "across the street from Grand Central Station", on 50 Vanderbilt Ave. So I head out of the station (which is a mini-journey itself), and started looking for the address. I was at the 400s, so I started heading east to get to the lower numbers. After about 5 blocks, I take a look at the sign, and realize I'm not on Vanderbilt Ave., I'm on goddamn Lexington Ave. I have no idea why New York has this inexplicable hard-on for SEC locations, especially since no one around here loves college football, so don't ask. I then high-tail it back and find the correct address.

Before I go further, I should mention that the event was being held at the Yale Club. Yes, that means that a Dartmouth reunion was being held at the Yale Club, which is approximately 3267 different kinds of wrong (oh, and sorry to throw the snob-card down by mentioning my alma mater, but it's needed to make this story work). Not the least of which is that we end up looking like the lesser school, having to beg the almighty Yale for space. I thought we had our own club...and then I do the actual research now and find out that we do have our own club, and it's located in the Yale Club. Fucking perfect. So at this point in the story, I've arrived at the club with about 10 minutes left before the party is supposed to end. I inquire with the doorman as to where the party was taking place, when I heard a scoff. "Sir, you are required to wear long pants. It is the rule of the club".

Fuck you in the ear, doorman.


So in just a few seconds, Yale affirms every single stereotype ever asserted about them. You kind of have to admire that level of jackassery. And I'm sorry I was wearing shorts--I mean, it was only a Happy Hour, and it's still good weather outside. Then again, I seem to be the only not-wimp in the city since I can maintain shortsleeves and shorts in 60+ degree weather. Whatever. (For the record, they were quite nice khaki shorts, and I was wearing a freshly-laundered polo shirt, so I wasn't living up to the stereotype of the Dartmouth Hobo at all).

So what did I do? Well, I went back home at 9:30, drank enough Jack Daniel's to stun a horse, and then masturbated. I couldn't remember if I finished or passed out first, but it doesn't matter, because I end up a winner either way.



Oh yeah, the whole "playlist" motif. The soundtrack to the evening was...Spoon's Gimme Fiction. It doesn't get much more fitting than that.