“I feel old,” I said as we left the subway and got away from the crowd of teens, carrying bottles of booze in Old Navy bags.
“No more water bottles full of vodka and Crystal Lite for you,” Alex said, as we walked down Queen Street to go to the movies. (Yes, we went to the movies on New Year’s Eve; we went in to Dreamgirls in 2006 and came out in 2007.)
(The movie was all right. Like, it was well-directed, Beyonce is much better than I expected, and Eddie Murphy is killer in it; but it’s weird to retell the story of Motown as about black people needing to feel guilty for their success. Like, yeah, some musicians had to “tone down” their music for a white audience, but Motown took more commercial risks; it rings really false when Jamie Foxx buries the “message song” that Eddie Murphy records in his Marvin Gaye hat, because Motown really did release “What’s Goin’ On” and “Ball of Confusion” and “War” and stuff.)
After we walked through the club district to get to the subway at one AM, this drunk kid exhorts Alex to have a happy new year and get really drunk and smoke a big j or something, and then he’s like “You too, ma’am.” Ma’am.
Happy New Year.
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