Speed, not quality, will determine how early we leave work today, and whether Emily and Doree are on the 1:39 Montauk train or the (frowny face!) 3:58 p.m. Emily's got to get to her women-only sharehouse (sensibly north of the highway) to check on her kombucha, which has been alone all week! And let's just say Doree wants to get to her Penn reunion sharehouse before sundown, cough, Jews. Of course, it doesn't matter what time Balk finishes, because the bar comes to him. (Alcoholism is hilarious!) Josh, the jerkface, is probably already landing at Heathrow. And as for me, I've got to pack my sarong and jet by Citarella for some cremini mushrooms and lobster tails before I hop the 2:39 or the 3:27 to Fag Island for my A-weekend half-share, so I can get there first to choose the best bed in the room I share with two guys named Jeff (Steroid Jeff is fun, Meth Jeff is scary!). I've been starving myself all week! I'm so hungry I might pass out! But wherever you're going this weekend, whether it's a Big Sur explosion on the North Fork or a quaint single-wide 1960's trailor on a little plot of land just east of Hudson, always remember: Because it's 1987, cocaine is the perfect hostess gift of the season. At some point today, we'll suddenly disappear, just like you. And just like you, we'll be back on Tuesday morning, a little dehydrated and maybe a little bit Lyme diseasy, a few days closer to death but still back at work.
The Plight of the Rich: No Lobsters, No Ferraris, No Butlers, No Oceanfront [The Beach]