After a one-year respite, I returned to the scene of a great afternoon drunken escapade, Ass Factory 2003 (a.k.a. the Bar Show). What a Sunday it was reminiscing about cleavage past and admiring the Booth Bunnies who pretended to know the first thing about mixing Sky Vodka with the right amounts of citrus and soda. Next week, of course, they might be sporting the same 36D's in a cocktail dress at a podiatry convention in Atlantic City. I kid, of course. I don't know how to mix Sky Vodka, either.

Kudos to the Coyote girls, pseudo-celebrities in their own right, who took the stage right after a woman had sang not only the best Karaoke version of "Fame" I ever heard but sported one of the best mullets seen outside a pro wrestling arena. Myself, Kevin, BassAleMan, fleavairoa and her husband all lined the front row to cheer for own home-base homies. They converted the entire crowd with the pixie dust that is hot babes in tight jeans and led the show not only in commerce (apparel flying off their table) but picture-taking (the Hawaiian Tropic girls had no chance, and I'm doing a Google search for "Hawaiian Tropic" as soon as I am done with this).

And, of course, there was booze. Vodka, rum, tequila, liqueurs -- even wine if you had no sack. If your arm works, you'll never go thirsty.

After the show, we went to Lot 61 for the post-party (also known as one-hour of taking as many pictures as you could of the painted-on cocktail waitresses), then to Red Rock West, where I saw my Yanks come back from a 9th-inning, two-out deficit against the Mess. (Forgive me god, for I have sinned, but I love watching sports on TV at Red Rock.) More importantly, I scored my first-ever break-to-8-ball run in pool at a biker bar, where my J-Crew-wearing ass could get me dropped just for walking in the joint. The it was off to Coyote, where we ran into friendly face after friendly face, outlasting the bar show visitors from out of town, reminding ourselves why NYC is the best place to live. Because everywhere else just isn't as much fun.