You Know You’re Trailer Trash if You Think “Loaded Dishwasher” Means Your Wife is Drunk

Paul and I took Mordecai over to Union Square. Milo the bulldog decided Paul was his best friend ever, so he took a seat on the bench and they read the New York Times together. Mordecai was less enamoured with world affairs, and remained focused exclusively on the ball.

While we hung out with our doggie friends, the ladies went out to track down the perfect pair of shoes. Apparently, there is not a perfect pair of shoes. There are several. A return trip has been scheduled for tomorrow.

Everyone met back at the apartment and we caught a cab up to the B.B. King Blues Club on West 42nd Street for a Beatles Brunch. What a great way to enjoy breakfast. The Faux Four played a set of early stuff, then came back in full Sgt. Pepper garb for the second set. Great players, great songs.

They’re going into their 15th year of Saturdays at B.B.’s, and all were cast members of Beatlemania before that. Paul introduced John at the end of the show, revealing that he’s a retired NYPD detective, and was a first responder on 9/11. I did not see that coming.

We taxied down to the Village so Paul could check out the fine handmade leather goods of Joseph Hanna on Bleecker Street.

The evening began, innocently enough, with a walk over to the Chelsea Market where Paul, sporting his new handmade leather Joseph Hanna bag, discovered his inner banjo star.

We left the Market, got on the High Line, and walked up to see Sheep Station. It was just a short walk across West 23rd street to the Trailer Park.

I had high expectations, and I was not disappointed. Hula girl lamps, framed pictures from the National Enquirer showing Kathie Lee Gifford going berserk, gardens of plastic flowers, Christmas lights for ambience, and yes, a turquoise trailer complete with mailbox.

Pitchers of maragaritas. $47. Worth every penny.

The food was fantastic, and cunningly served on disposable plates with plastic utensils. Paper towels for napkins. A truly immersive experience.

The girls enjoyed their margaritas immensely. I have no doubt, had the Naked Cowboy been in attendance, there would have been more photo ops with women giggling like school girls.

Now I don’t get out much, but I’m pretty sure this is New York City’s finest restaurant.