So last Friday, several of us arranged to have the afternoon off from work, the point being to visit Six Flags in New Jersey and ride Kingda Ka. Rain put the kibosh on that plan, so instead we went to see Wallace & Gromit, downed some food and much drink at the Westside Brewing Company, and then ambled over to the American Museum of Natural History to catch an evening laser show at the Hayden Planetarium.

While a few of our number entered the museum to get in line, a few others—and I'm not naming names here—slipped across 81st Street to a nearby liquor store. Thus it was that a good friend of mine—and I'm not saying who, except to remark that he has been known to moonlight as a man of the cloth—slipped me a small plastic bottle as we waited in the antechamber to the planetarium. Said bottle, upon examination, turned out to be a diminutive container of Johnnie Walker Black Label.

So it was that, as we enjoyed a DJ mix by Moby and space-tastic visuals that were rather more highly evolved than the laser shows I used to see as a youngster, I sneaked little nips from my JW bottle. Beside me, another unindicted co-conspirator who shall remain nameless except to say that I'm married to her, was taking hits from a darling little bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream. Reportedly the planetarium staff were keeping a close eye on our group, though I was rather too absorbed in the various and sundry spectacles to notice.

So this morning on the way to work, I put my hand in the pocket of the coat I hadn't worn since Friday, and what did I discover? A second, yet unopened JW minibottle. (Yes, just the thing to find in one's possession on the way to the subway and the office. Yeesh.) My good friend the reverend had slipped it to me as we left the planetarium. "For the ride home," he said.

I'm not sure whose adolescence I'm reliving, but it sure isn't mine.