Though I wasn't on hand to witness the actual explosion, the pinnate, it turns out, was also full of marijuana. Hundreds of dimes. A cultural experience.

Outside the Pirate Radio Station, MY SISTER took care of her puking drunk friend whom we were to stay with in Queens. MY SISTER lifted her friend from a puddle of sick, as a man dressed as the devil and obviously on some psychotic drugs, yelled at MY SISTER to, "God! Take better care of her!" His eyes big and white in his red and black face. "Hold her fucking hand!"

MY SISTER decided they'd leave early. But the weather was perfect and I wanted to stay and see the rest of the bands and maybe befriend some New York woman, so my sister's friend managed to scrawl out subway directions. Goodbye. I watched my sister drag her friend's limp body down the block into the night, with little faith I'd make it to back to Queens.

An hour later Todd left. Then all the women. Mark McManus passed out sleeping in the tour van and I found myself with no reason to stick around.

I crashed on the couch of another Tampa ex-patriot, around the corner from the Pirate Radio Station. I awoke next to his bong, tested it out, then called MY DJ. We made plans to meet up and walk around Manhattan getting fucked up.

As I rounded the corner to the now day-lit Pirate Radio Station, to pick up my equipment, I saw a member of another Tampa band that'd played last night. He was loading amps into his van and the winter sun gleamed white across his sunglasses as he heaved and posed in New York and I thought, 'he sure does look like a rock guy.' So, I yelled "ROCK…" But before I could get 'GUY' out, I realized the rock guy was actually a stranger. A New Yorker. He pushed his sunglasses up and looked at me, then took the glasses completely off. I thought to say, 'I'm sorry. I come from a place where there are few rock guys: a small place where I know every rock guy in town.' But instead I stared straight ahead away from him. Walking. Pretending I hadn't yelled. If he was a native, he'd heard enough crazy people shout erroneous phrases into the empty air.

Inside the Pirate radio Station, males wandered around the loft in boxer shorts and bed heads, making plans as to where they'd get drunk that day and night. The pipe was already being passed. I tested it. And in the morning light I surveyed the dime bags littering the floor from last night's pinnate.

I took the subway to the Lower East Side and MY DJ and I picked up a six pack of Budweiser tallboy cans and stopped at a restaurant called 'Grilled Cheese', which serves elaborate, gourmet grilled cheeses. Then we headed to a park to eat and drink with the rest of the bums. MY DJ wasn't happy about last night.

"Fucking ONE turntable!?" He marveled and relived the story. "I dragged all this vinyl from Tampa, it's cool, it's not like I do anything with it. No one cares"

"The show downstairs where you played guitar was awesome though."

"Just, last night in general; I just didn't have that much fun."

"I did. I really appreciate the concept of all these Tampa people coming up at the same time." I told him, as we sat on a park bench, sipping from our bag-wrapped cans and watching guys play basketball in a good mood simply because there's no place to watch people play basketball in Tampa. "It's like a big field trip."

"I guess. Those people exclude me though. I would have rather met new people."

"Who excluded you?"

"Just all the people who used to live in Tampa. They didn't even talk to me, and since all my Tampa friends were hanging out with them, I was excluded."

"I guess awkward Tampa social habits don't just die once you move. I suppose."

"The people who were cool to me were from New York, not from Tampa."

As I nodded vague agreement, I turned to catch a bum standing in front of me, almost on top of me, reaching down under our bench for my beer. "Let me get a sip." He said, bending over.

"No!" Surprised and buzzed, I snatched the beer and took a sip myself. He was already wasted. "C'mon man, just a half a can."

"No! I paid for this." I took another sip of the warm beer, which was especially bad, being Budweiser and all. Paused. "No." In a mound of litter across the basketball court a little black girl played with a ball. A white plastic grocery bag, the same size as the girl, blew past her. I took another bad sip. Handed him the half-empty can. "Take it."

As I reached under the bench and opened another cold Budweiser he stared in blank longing. I met his eyes, pointed across the basketball court and bitched at him: "Alright. You're welcome. Go drink it now." He turned and followed the trajectory of my extended index finger until I realized I had also given him the brown paper bag that would keep me legal, drinking in the park. "Oh, hey, wait." I shouted to the back of his head and marched over to him. He poised for fight or flight as I reached for the can but I wrenched it away and slipped off the bag, which retained its cylindrical shape. I handed the beer back. "Don't get arrested." I slipped my new beer into the old bag. He grumbled and walked away, out from under the shade trees by our bench, into the middle of the court where he lit up from the sun. He spun in several circles staring up and smiling under the warm beams. He then continuing toward the shade on the other side where he laid on he stomach and began doing pushups.

We finished our beers and grilled cheeses and met Todd at St. Marks books, where I bought a copy of McSweeney's Quarterly Concern, which I'd never seen in person. We offered Todd a Budweiser and he laughed in our faces so we went to DBA and drank the after noon away and talked about the things young men talk about: ROCK MUSIC: 18% WRITING: 11% OTHER FAMOUS PEOPLE WHO AREN'T WRITERS OR MUSICIANS: 4% WOMEN: 15% HOMOSEXUALITY: 1% POLITICS: .5% NEW YORK: 11% FLORIDA: 6% WORK: 1.5% WHO'S FULL OF SHIT: 5% DRINKING: 4% SMOKING POT: 5% DJs: 8% LAST NIGHT: 10%

I left my tape recorder and my satchel holdings books, extra tapes and beer, on the table with Todd, while I ordered another round at the bar. I looked back to our table across the room and noticed Todd speaking into the recorder:

"We're at DBA in the East Village. It's 3:30 p.m. Michael is at the bar getting a beer right now. He left his bags on top of the table like some very naïve Floridian would do in New York City."

Before the night came, I was drunk. Not much. But I was there. I remember referring to Al Gore as Bob Dole several times as I drank with Todd and MY DJ. I remember finding an abandoned green silk bra on the sidewalk as we walked Todd to the subway. I remember having my picture taken with the bra. Neither of my friends suggested: "Don't pick a dirty bra up off the ground!" We said goodbye to Todd, and welcomed night as a different phase of our day. The story doesn't get much better.