When one has spent a week and a half in the hundred and five degree weather of Las Vegas knocking out over sixty hours of overtime whilst sleeping just long enough to miss Letterman’s opening monologue before being cast into the tempest of labor once more, you tend to be pretty damn happy when you get off the plane back in your native land.

You’ve returned to your city, your friends, and most importantly, your bed.

It’s an exciting moment.

That said, that joy can be doused quickly and efficently by simply being forced to utter the following phrase: “Excuse me, why are you taking me to Rikers?”

Fortunately for me the person, and unfortunately for me the story teller, I was only being dragged over to the infamous island by a lost cabbie and not an acting officer of the state. My driver crashed into a guard rail, circled the airport three times, and now for the finale…Rikers. Wonderful.

“Whatchu doin’ buddy? The fuck. This a citizen’s arrest?”
“I…uh…”
“This guy visiting his Dad or some shit?”
“…um…”
“What, man, what?”
“…umm…BQE?”

The eyeroll the cop gave my driver would have killed Indiana Jones.

It’s good to be home.