Peter makes me laugh with his stories all the way down 95. In the Bronx at a Dunkin Donuts a small crowd gathers around our ride and a latino man steps up and insists that Peter sell him his car(a mint purple sparkle Datsun) on the spot. He offers $2000 and flashes a tight roll of bills. Peter politely declines. The car turns heads as we cruise through various neighborhoods on our way into Brooklyn. Peter hilarliously outlines his next project: mounting a 13" color television where the glove box is and then installing an Atari 2600 discreetly behind the dashboard so that the cartridges can be inserted right into the wood veneer panel on the dash. I laugh, but he is completely serious.

In Park Slope we arrive at the club where M's band is playing and join him onstage for our Less-Than-Annual Thanksgiving Jam, the highlight of which, for me, was the terrific opportunity to inflict both guitar and drums on the unsuspecting patrons, who were both well sauced and quite into it, defying the adage --"if you're into it, they're not; if they're into it, you're not". We played three songs and left the stage minor heroes. While being flirted up by a girl with big white teeth and painted lips, M & P are making motions toward the exit. They are married and they do their best to avoid occasions where carousing is all too easy. Oddly, I tell them to go on without me, that I'll find my own way home. The night is filled with too much exciting possibility to leave it behind just yet. But my exuberance fades soon after they go, when I realize I am alone in the city talking to a stranger. It turns to regret because I do not find her interesting beyond her teeth and lips, and already she has her hand on my knee.