You know, I had a genuinely good time at yesterday's seemingly much-debated Waterfront Fiesta. I enjoyed the last sweats of summer! I got to put on sunscreen! I didn't have to sit behind a computer or inside or on twitter! The rest of the night was a dimmed-light marathon of the dreaming about January Jones' frock and attempting to make nectarine sorbet while watching Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs (this is what we do), and it was a great end to a lazy weekend.

 Then, why are the notes I took during the show so awful?:

"I mean, I miss college, but I didn't feel like reminiscing next to a shirtless someone wearing a lobster-print belt with polo boxer briefs hanging out."

 "All good things must die. And like the tombstone carving on the grave of Williamburg, this ship had sailed. Or sunk. Either way, I haven't felt this eighteen since I was fifteen, and a mid-set musical break of "Move Bitch" solidifies the how "over" these Pool Parties have become."

 "I skipped most of DMC to stuff my face into a sloppy gluten-filled mess of a pita that I can't even digest and it was still better than being bumped by a prep wearing loafers pumping a fist to one of the first participants in an entire musical genre"

Yeeeesh. Maybe the few rays of sunshine I captured melted away any sort of sweet outer shell I had or my true self comes out when it rises above 90 degrees. Either way, it was a show linked together by bloggable, notable "moments" — Delorean, DMC, Tim Harrington on "Walk This Way", Doug E. Fresh, Andrew W.K. — and don't get me wrong, for that, the show was pretty epic. But something seems so inherently sad about boogyin' on down to a member of the most influential hip-hop groups in existence while drunk off free rum from a pre-party sponsored by a store whose $200 dresses I can't afford and standing outside in a sea of white twentysomethings, sweating in the shadow of a luxury waterfront condominium.

That being said, I have no g-damn clue who Gucci Mane is. I can't be the only one. Do you?