more photographic dispatches from last month's trip

Ricky didn't know that drinking with a straw made him look gay.
I chose to not point it out.
Which didn't really matter because he insisted on wearing
the scarf he bought at H&M.
In the junior department.
Also, the "doesn't my butt look sweet in these jeans?" question
was getting really annoying after the fifth time. So there's that.

Two thumbs up: The Cowgirl Hall of Fame.
Best damn strawberry margaritas in New York.
And Patsy Cline portraits in the john.

When people leave their mattresses out on the sidewalk
in the middle of the Village is there anything to do other than
jumping up and down on them?

Scariest. Damn. Bingo game hostess on the planet. Ever.
I knew I was in trouble when she asked me how long I claim to have been
a woman. Oh, and she called my friends Kathy and Lisa "Cagney and Lacy"
or "Streetwalker Barbie and Midge" all night which I sort of preferred
and continue to address them as such.
It couldn't have been all that bad.
We got there at 10 p.m.-ish and starting lurching toward the door at 3 a.m.-ish.
I think. No. Yeah. Um. Yeah.

Best damn cupcakes on the planet.
Especially the red velvet.
Even though I saw them twice.
Once in the bakery and again splattered near my feet
when Ricky leaned over and said "Oy. Yeah, I'm gonna puke,"
as I hailed a cab. Good times.