So yeah. Saturday
Apple martinis, sangria, red bull and vodka, vodka and tonics, all good times. Chatting with Chris's wife while he chatted with co-workers was great, we went over a lot of little things, she's quite cool. I was told this, but got to confirm it for myself. Chris drunk was nuts. Pete drunk, as always, was nuts. The two of them together drunk was insane. No one was safe. Pete chatted with Hiroshima girl, felt horrible the next day about possibly ruining a pair's evening, and asked a European's preferences.
Living with an alcoholic in Hoboken could be bad, and could be fun. I made it to EB the next morning despite not staying hydrated or taking multivitamins.
A fun night, all in all.
The next night, after both of us spent the day in pain, we walked through Frank Sinatra park where the festival was being taken apart.
Finally got Pete to see Fight Club, the movie that he of all people has needed to see. He, of course, loved it and has watched it once more while I was out. Good times.
Last night Pete and I were discussing his brother's work for the top secret military-industrial complex in the west. Teller's name came up, we discussed the various people behind the bombs, I explained the tentacles of Odessa, and he insisted that his brother met Teller and that Teller was alive. I refused to believe that Teller was alive, expressed amazement, and was shocked. Depending on when he died, Pete might have been wrong.
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