Once upon a time, I always gave one of my friends a hard time about analyzing everything we did. Seriously, this habit reached its lowest low when we were sitting in a restaurant in Charleston, South Carolina:
COMMENTATOR: No, seriously, guys, this was great. We saw the waterfront, and we just walked around the gallery district of Charleston, and now we've had a very authentic, Southern lunch-- [very authentic, Southern women turn around and stare at COMMENTATOR]-- and now we're going to a museum. This is such a rich, cultural day, guys.
I should also note that my friend has a rather booming voice that allowed pretty much everyone in the very authentic, Southern restaurant to hear him. I, of course, thanked him for the Post-Game Report and threw it back to the studio.
And now, in that great tradition, I bring you bits and pieces of The Kate Lew. Post-Game Report. I am somewhat vindicated in this endeavor because my report comes in the wake of an actual game-- The Game, at that. So, without ado, le report, in a quirky wins-losses format:
[note: The Report will soon be illustrated; it would be now, had I not failed to pack my camera cords. Check back!]
W: Best welcome ever, in the form of a scream and a flying attack-hug from one of my favorite people at Yale. I think her family was a little surprised that the first thing she did upon entering her common room was nearly break the girl sitting on the couch, but it pretty much made my day.
W: Dinner at Thai restaurant with rockstar. There is nothing quite like pan-Asian cuisine to strengthen the bonds between a future star and her current groupie. I am already pulling for the band to play the Black Cat and 9:30 Club. Afterparty will be anywhere we can sing sweet, sweet karaoke.
W: Do you know any jokes that start, “So, these 15 people walk into a sushi bar”? After Miya’s, I’m working on some.
L: Five dollars and a little of my soul. Friday night at Toad’s, also known as one of the worst nights at Toad’s ever. Clearly what happens when you take a good thing and let in Harvard students. And I really can’t believe they charged us, although maybe they were just trying to make up all that lost revenue from when they were closed during Senior Week.
W: There's something about taking a tranquil stroll to the Yale Bowl, meandering past taxis--and I believe the bus carrying the Yale football team--stuck in traffic, and arriving at your U-Haul of choice to the tune of cheers and a "mimosa" of orange juice-tinted Andre that warms my soul. And people making pancakes. Especially at 9:30 a.m. I know a lot of people like football, but I maintain that the great American sporting pastimes are baseball and tailgating.
L: North Face fleece glove. Drowning victim—lost in the sea of human bodies that was the attempt to enter the student section of the Yale Bowl. Shockingly, the only thing I took into the Bowl that I did not bring out—though my arm was almost on that list.
L: I don’t actually want to address the score of The Game, beyond noting it on my loss list. As I told Text Message Guy, I went home for a tailgate. As much as I would have appreciated a win, I really just needed an excuse to go stand around a U-Haul with my friends—and if that excuse is a football game, then so be it.
Sidebar: Yes—Text Message Guy is still texting me. The future rockstar thinks it would be funny to maintain correspondence to see how long he will go before he finally asks my name. I think this plan is potentially interesting—and potentially hilarious.
L: Just about all the fluid in my body. Seriously. I don’t think I’ve been that dehydrated since…well, probably since the last Game. There’s nothing quite like mimosas for breakfast to set the tone for a day of healthy hydration.
W: Davenport Oktoberfest stein. Accidentally burgled from the Cottage in the process of dragging people to Toad’s. “Here, you can put it in my bag; I’ll take it back to the Cottage tomorrow morning.” Oops.
W: Further proof that all roads lead to Toad’s. Despite the malaise resulting from approximately 24 hours of drinking, the 7:30 a.m. wake-up thanks to the Harvard morons staying in the next room (it’s not that they go to Harvard—it’s that they’re morons), and the vague recollection of a crowded, awful Toad’s the night before, we cowboyed up and sallied forth to our York Street beacon once again. And it was great. Fortified by several dollar draughts, a SoCo and lime or two, and—I’m pretty sure—a Jagerbomb, I remembered how I ended up on that dance floor so many times before. Because when Toad’s is bad, it’s a mess. But when it’s good, it’s so good-- so good! so good! so good!
W: Did I mention that I was at Toad's because I was not in a theatre striking the set of a mainstage musical? Because it was the first time in history that I went out after The Game, instead of resigning myself to a night of set demolition until dawn. In order to convey my joy, I took a little trip over to the theatre that was the scene of so many of my debacles in the past and said hi to some of my favorite theatre people. Needless to say, I was happy to see them and really happy not to be them.
W: Seeing so many good friends. In terms of the Dport crew-- I mean, there really aren’t sufficient words to explain what happens when there are 30 of us in a room. We started a party in Cottage—which six of the guys used to call home—without the help or permission of the guys who live there now. Well, their keg helped. And in addition to having an '07 Myrtle reunion, I saw 7 years of Dporters, which was cool beyond words.