The spike of a pickaxe awoke me from my drunken coma. That sharp pain starting at the base of my neck and running its course to the back of my eyes is the only thing that tells me I'm actually alive. The agony is so bad I’m having trouble thinking. Where am I? Why is it so dark? I can’t see and I can barely breathe. I think there’s something on my head. My arms are like noodles, but I manage to rip away my cranial bindings. It was the shirt I was wearing last night wrapped around my face like a mask. Interesting.
Other than the makeshift Halloween accessory, it seems that I’m completely naked. I rip off my blankets and try to stand (easier said than done) so I can make my way to a glass of water or an Aspirin or ANYTHING that will help get this base drum out of my skull. Apparently, I’m still wearing my socks and shoes. How did I get my pants off?
One wobbly motion later and I'm standing in what’s left of my room. Somehow I’ve managed to pull all the drawers out of my cabinets and knock all of my books and DVD’s off the shelves. My missing pants are now oddly deposited on top of my lamp and my trashcan is upside-down and blocking my door. It takes every ounce of dexterity I have to step over this mess and make my way to the bathroom. Right now I have two dire needs: I need to find a pill for my head trauma and I need to expel something from my body that would make a hazmat team shriek in horror. Not necessarily in that order…. Actually the painkillers can wait a sec.
Besides the fact that I’ve now made a smell that is making the bathroom wall paper peel (it should burst into flame any minute) I had little trouble finishing my two tasks. After I pop a handful of Advil, I set my new goal: to sleep off this malady for another day or two. As I work my way back to bed, I check my wall clock and it tells me some dirty lie about it being half-past noon. I can’t think about that. In fact, every thought I have seems to be exploding in my skull. My mind is buzzing. Or is it all in my mind? I think my lamp is also buzzing.
It’s my pants (the ones on the lamp) and they’re making a humming sound and it’s not stopping. It’s torture just trying to do simple things, so the complicated chore of removing my garments from my light source seems like running through a wall of barbed wire. I manage to free the displaced jeans and rummage through the pockets to find what I assume to be the cause of this annoyance. Jackpot! A guilty cell-phone.
How can it be doing this to me? How can a device I've become so dependant on betray me like this? I fumble with the suddenly excruciatingly complicated controls and manage to discern why this racket is emanating from this evolved walkie-talkie.
I have 6 new messages. Uh-oh.
This looks like a classic case of “drunk dialing.” For those unfamiliar with this team let me elaborate...
Hung over? Woke up alone? Left your phone on? Got a ton of messages? Well then you must have got the itchy button finger last night and reached out and touched someone with your whiskey coated paw. You said things you never meant to say, to people that didn’t want to hear it, at a time when the last thing they wanted was to talk to you. Best case scenario: a few laughs and a story to tell. Worst case scenario: restraining order. It all depends on who picked up.
Anyway, before I can repair any damage, I need to see what my friends and (oh please god no) family have had to say in response to my late night telecommunications. I close my eyes and play back the messages.
Message one:
Dude! You sound soooo hammered! Where did you go? We were looking for you. I have NO idea what you said on my voice mail. That’s fucking epic man. You said you were in the FBI or some shit. That is fucked up man... that's fucking funny.
Message two:
Robin, I’m retuning your call. You are really drunk buddy. I guess I’ll talk to you when you sober up, but let me just say that Karen and I are just fine and I would appreciate if you would stay out of my… OUR business and let us handle whatever problems we have alone? ALRIGHT? Talk to you later.
Message three:
Hi, Robbie…. it’s your mother… I am so worried about you sweetie. You left such a rambling message on the machine. Are you in trouble? You weren’t making much sense… were you drinking? You KNOW you drink too much and it makes me so sad. Call me as soon as you get this.
Message four:
Well now that I am fully awake I can finish the little “conversation” we started last night when you called at 3 in the morning. We broke up two months ago and I don’t care what you have to fucking say… it’s not happening. Lose my number… you sick fucking prick.
Message five:
Robin? I am SO happy you called me! After the last date we had and all that time that went by and like all the messages I left, I didn’t think you wanted to talk to me anymore or see me or anything. And when my friends said you were going out with like some other girl I was like almost really stressing…. But I guess that’s all in my silly head! Haha! You sounded a little tipsy but you were like SO nice to me last night and I totally can’t wait to like see you this week. Gimme a call tomorrow ok? Silly boy!
Message six:
¿Quiénes son usted? ¿Por qué usted está llamando aquí?
Well, if it wasn’t for the blinding pain, I might start to care about this mess. But I am already half-asleep again. I’m not worried. I’m sure this will all be here waiting for me when I wake up tonight. Fuck.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Sunday, December 17, 2006
On the Town
Where do you go when the week ends and the freedom of two days where waking up hung-over isn’t the end of the world? You go out. You go to a bar or club or a small restaurant for drinks. The destination is affixed to your current mood and company and may even be transitory, but it’s anywhere but work and that’s good enough for your tastes on a Friday night.
You’ll go to Art Bar if you want the happy hour 2 for 1 and need a place to lounge. You’ll go to Lotus if you want to get pushed into drunken nineteen year olds with fake ID’s. You’ll go to the White Horse Tavern if you want some history and more menu options than McSorley’s (but you’ll end up at McSorley’s). You’ll go to the Gowanus Yacht Club if the weather is nice and its trivia night. You’ll go to the Patriot if you want to see a girl in her underwear breathe fire. You’ll go to The Comedy Cellar if you want to laugh or Caroline’s if you want to laugh and go broke. You’ll go to Minnow if you’re in Park Slope, Floyds if you’re on Atlantic Avenue or the Brooklyn Social Club if you’re in Cobble Hill. You’ll go to Blondie’s if you want wings, Donavan’s if you want burgers and Peter McManus if you want the most disgusting looking (and tasting) bratwurst, complete with bacon, cheese and sauerkraut. You’ll go to St. Andrews if you want fine scotch, the Whiskey Ward if you want bourbon and Porkey’s if you want to drink out of a fishbowl. You’ll go to The Blue Note for jazz, The Bitter End for rock and if you can travel back in time (or to Las Vegas) you’ll be at CBGB’s if you want real punk. You’ll go to Chumley’s if you can find it or know someone to ask. You’ll go to Josie Woods if you’re from NYU and you’re already wasted. You’ll go to Down the Hatch if you want to hang out with frat boys and play Beirut while the girls check their drinks for roofies. You’ll go to the Riviera to watch the Red Sox, Cousin’s to watch the Yankees, Stan’s to watch the Mets and the Hairy Monk to see Liverpool win the Champions League cup and to fight the crazy fans that will bite, kick and flail with enthusiasm over the tremendous victory.
And if you’re tired or lazy and have nothing better to do, you’ll go to the bar called Bar at the end of my street. The pints are cheap, the company is quiet and the lighting is dark enough that you can wallow and not be noticed by the other drunks also trying to forget their work week. Sometimes they have cartoons on.
You’ll go to Art Bar if you want the happy hour 2 for 1 and need a place to lounge. You’ll go to Lotus if you want to get pushed into drunken nineteen year olds with fake ID’s. You’ll go to the White Horse Tavern if you want some history and more menu options than McSorley’s (but you’ll end up at McSorley’s). You’ll go to the Gowanus Yacht Club if the weather is nice and its trivia night. You’ll go to the Patriot if you want to see a girl in her underwear breathe fire. You’ll go to The Comedy Cellar if you want to laugh or Caroline’s if you want to laugh and go broke. You’ll go to Minnow if you’re in Park Slope, Floyds if you’re on Atlantic Avenue or the Brooklyn Social Club if you’re in Cobble Hill. You’ll go to Blondie’s if you want wings, Donavan’s if you want burgers and Peter McManus if you want the most disgusting looking (and tasting) bratwurst, complete with bacon, cheese and sauerkraut. You’ll go to St. Andrews if you want fine scotch, the Whiskey Ward if you want bourbon and Porkey’s if you want to drink out of a fishbowl. You’ll go to The Blue Note for jazz, The Bitter End for rock and if you can travel back in time (or to Las Vegas) you’ll be at CBGB’s if you want real punk. You’ll go to Chumley’s if you can find it or know someone to ask. You’ll go to Josie Woods if you’re from NYU and you’re already wasted. You’ll go to Down the Hatch if you want to hang out with frat boys and play Beirut while the girls check their drinks for roofies. You’ll go to the Riviera to watch the Red Sox, Cousin’s to watch the Yankees, Stan’s to watch the Mets and the Hairy Monk to see Liverpool win the Champions League cup and to fight the crazy fans that will bite, kick and flail with enthusiasm over the tremendous victory.
And if you’re tired or lazy and have nothing better to do, you’ll go to the bar called Bar at the end of my street. The pints are cheap, the company is quiet and the lighting is dark enough that you can wallow and not be noticed by the other drunks also trying to forget their work week. Sometimes they have cartoons on.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Bar Fight
Nobody’s looking for a fight. Ok, that’s not entirely true; there’s always some fucker from the Bronx or from Red Hook looking to prove to the bimbo in the ripped jean jacket and black skirt that he’s not some “little bitch” just because he cried when she dumped him last week. That guy is taking his friends to all the clubs where the trendy college kids hang out and they’re going to spill their beer on you and me and try to get our cockles raised. They are going to get right in our faces, totally forgetting that Brittney or Lindsey or even Marline can’t see them get all pumped and angry, raging with the same testosterone they felt they lacked when they were on all fours begging their (now absent) sport fuck not to leave. These thugs are taking off their jackets showing off their tight wife-beaters and gold chains while their smaller friends jump up and down behind them saying words of encouragement like:
“Oh you gonna fuck him UP, Tony!”
“Teach this little bitch, Evan! You teach HIM!”
So he’s half naked, his beer is spilt, his friends are ready and he’s jumping up and down with his head cocked slightly to the right. Now prepare to get hit.
The first hit can tell you a lot about your assailant. If it’s to the chest or arm, or softly to the side of the head, he isn’t into this. He is just trying to be the big man in front of his dumb ass buddies and it’s too late to back down. Act tough, stand your ground and look to your friends and you can diffuse the situation before he feels really cornered and starts to fight hard. If you push the issue he’ll turn mean and get his friends to help beat on you. It’s never worth it. Apologize for whatever transgression he assumed you committed, and then buy him a beer. He’ll go away feeling like he won.
If he goes to tackle you, it’s even worse. This type of guy REALLY doesn’t want to fight. He is depressed and needs a hug. The physical contact of his victim is the biggest rush for him. You’ll often see these guys crying before you’ve landed a hit. Careful, because they are often really drunk and might just take this tender moment and ruin it by puking on you. Call him a cab.
Some guys aim for the stomach or face first. These jerks are dangerous. They really want to fight and you just happen to be the guy in the way. They might even want YOU to throw the first punch, just to show you that they can take it. They’ll goad you with insults and racial slurs; they try to emasculate. If you break, you will throw something like an obvious right-hook and he’ll block it (or take it) and level you with a straight shot to your mouth. When you hit the ground he’ll kick you and try to get you back up for gut shots and kidney hits. If he’s European he might even head-butt you. Soccer fans love that… can’t explain it. Prepare for some bruises and scratches. Cover your head and you should stay out of the hospital if he doesn’t have a bottle or stool in his hand that is. I hate this guy.
But other than these sad sacks, nobody is looking for a fight. But they happen. We are social animals that use drugs. What a combination. You’re going to get drunk and piss off another drunk and sometimes things can’t be solved with slurred words. Nothing can verbalize a punch. You can’t talk to a kick. Most chokeholds refuse to listen. Don’t worry. You might even be friends after. I promise. It’s a release. It’s not changing the world. It’s only a broken knuckle, wrist or nose. A cracked smile and a story to tell. You got into a fight.
My first fight in a bar started innocently enough. I was drunk. My ex, Sarah, was celebrating some promotion or big case closing or something with co-workers. I didn’t care. It was free drinks and I was invited. If the drinks were free, I would drink on the surface of the moon (or even Brighton Beach). This was a bar called the Shallow Well in the West Village, so the treat tonight was watered down expensive drinks for free. I was drinking Johnny Walker Black on the rocks. Well, it was on water on the rocks. Whatever. It was free.
As with most fancy dress affairs, she was schmoozing. Talking to all her friends and people of influence. She always had this fake smile and even faker laugh when with her “working” friends. Every once and awhile she would glance my way with her steel blue eyes and flash me the “don’t get too drunk, you’ll embarrass me” look. The drinks had more chlorine than alcohol in them so there was little chance of that. But I was giving it the college try.
I only really started downing them when she began entertaining one of her platinum-haired, 50-something, overly tanned bosses. Her hand on his lap, her black dress looked even shorter when next to this older man she fawned over. They share a laugh, he gets her another drink and I wince and turn away. Back to the watery whiskey and the hole it’s slowly filling. Forget misery; jealousy is the emotional demon that really enjoys company. I scanned the room for the first half-drunk twit secretary that was moderately alone.
Karen, receptionist, shoe with a broken heel. Perfect.
I made my way over to the mousey girl stirring her drink while starring off into the distance. The dialogue was as watery as my drink. Nice weather, good job, neat place, feeling kinda tipsy, how was your day? Nothing but mindless light words, but the booze lubricated the conversation into a more physical association. I swing my arm around her and she giggles and puts an unsteady hand on my knee. Gotcha! I look over to see if I can’t get the attention of my girlfriend and the silver fox she was eye fucking, but she’s alone. She’s looking at me with a glass of white wine in her hand and a look of disgusted amazement on her face.
I politely excuse myself from Karen’s drunken company and half run to Sarah at the bar. She is so furious she can barely look at me and is speaking in half stutter snarls.
“So you… fuck … you having a good time? A nice time with that slut?” She lingers on that last word for like 5 seconds too long. She downs the glass of wine and nearly breaks the stem slamming it on the bar. I try to settle her down with a cup of honesty.
“What can you possibly have to be mad about? We didn’t do anything and I KNOW I saw you cuddling up to that stuffed suit.” Turnabout is a bitch, but she’s drunk enough to be indignant.
“What are you talking about? Carl is a FRIEND and we were just talking.”
“You were talking while he was setting you up for a night of carnal bliss. Oh, and you looked REAL repulsed.”
“Fuck you! What the fuck do you know?” She’s now waving her glass at me and it’s about an inch from my face. She smells like wine, lip-gloss and sweat and she’s about twice as drunk as me. I guess I should have stuck with the wine.
As I am settling down this crazy woman and thinking of changing my drink order, a figure comes up behind Sarah and puts a hand on her shoulder. It’s her “friend” Carl.
“So I took care of the business with the accounting guys. You wanna take off? Find a place with a few less people?” His tone is confident and his voice is like gravel over smooth leather. And he’s not talking to me.
Sarah looks honestly embarrassed. The white skin turns scarlet from her nearly exposed chest and spreads to her worried face. My crimson color change begins in the corners of my eyes and on the knuckles of each fist. I let him know he’s not wanted and this is a private conversation.
“Back off you ancient fuck. She’s with me, grandpa.” It’s important to maintain a sense of dominance over an opponent. Belittle their prominent traits and give them a wide berth to back down. Claim your prize, tell the rival he needs to leave and make fun of his height if he’s short, looks if he’s ugly, clothes if they’re cheap or age if it suits him. This jerk has a foot on me and he looked like Remington Steele’s father, so I went with age. As expected he took offense, but he took the supposed high road.
“Sarah, darling, is the asshole bothering you?” The condescending prick. As I reel back and begin my approach I can feel my drunk settle into my stomach. I want blood. I raise my hands to his chest and give him a quick shove. The energy rises. The air is electric as he gives me a stare of pure hate. His drunk is almost as strong as mine and he wears is just as well. His tone switches from smooth foppishness to sticky acid.
“You little punk. You bit off more than you can handle son.” He is used to speaking down to people and it oozes from his every pore. He is the boss, the check signer and the Alpha Dog. He worked for a living and he would be damned if some tie-less hipster from Brooklyn will stand in the way of his good time. It’s an old story and one I am intimately familiar with.
He was just like my least favorite bully from back in high school. He never let me forget that he was older, wiser and stronger. And he never let me have an even break. It was his boot in my face and if I ever dared to step out of line he would drop a quick right cross into my cheek. This felt so familiar. Jump ahead thirty years and Carl could have been the same guy. It wouldn’t surprise me. And from that I can almost feel his next move. He drops his shoulder, raises his arm and sends me a quick email about where the hit is coming from. Even as drunk as I am, I am ready for it. I take a quick step back and let him continue his foolish swing, totally planning to slam the exposed side of his head.
But I couldn’t. Oh, it wasn’t my abhorrence of violence or anything (this guy was ripe for a beating). It was just that Sarah happened to block Carl’s punch with her left eye… and it kind of killed the mood.
I must admit she could take a hit. She buckled on the bar stool, but didn’t topple. Tears shrink-wrapping her unblinking eyes, she let out the most pathetic whimper. I’m still not sure which of the three was more shocked at this point. I just stood there like an exhausted tourist waiting for the bus. Carl looked like he wanted to run, but it was Sarah that grabbed her bag and went for the door. We both make several weak attempts to stop her, just to see if she’s okay. But she won’t be halted by any half-measures. Inconsolable, she is out the door and halfway down the block in a matter of seconds. The insanity unfolded before me, and it was too unbelievable to react to. Madness on drunkenness on violence, but the situation seemed more orderly than it did a minute earlier.
Both Carl and I stood there for what seemed like eons before I managed to break the thick, uncomfortable silence.
“Buy you a drink?”
“Oh you gonna fuck him UP, Tony!”
“Teach this little bitch, Evan! You teach HIM!”
So he’s half naked, his beer is spilt, his friends are ready and he’s jumping up and down with his head cocked slightly to the right. Now prepare to get hit.
The first hit can tell you a lot about your assailant. If it’s to the chest or arm, or softly to the side of the head, he isn’t into this. He is just trying to be the big man in front of his dumb ass buddies and it’s too late to back down. Act tough, stand your ground and look to your friends and you can diffuse the situation before he feels really cornered and starts to fight hard. If you push the issue he’ll turn mean and get his friends to help beat on you. It’s never worth it. Apologize for whatever transgression he assumed you committed, and then buy him a beer. He’ll go away feeling like he won.
If he goes to tackle you, it’s even worse. This type of guy REALLY doesn’t want to fight. He is depressed and needs a hug. The physical contact of his victim is the biggest rush for him. You’ll often see these guys crying before you’ve landed a hit. Careful, because they are often really drunk and might just take this tender moment and ruin it by puking on you. Call him a cab.
Some guys aim for the stomach or face first. These jerks are dangerous. They really want to fight and you just happen to be the guy in the way. They might even want YOU to throw the first punch, just to show you that they can take it. They’ll goad you with insults and racial slurs; they try to emasculate. If you break, you will throw something like an obvious right-hook and he’ll block it (or take it) and level you with a straight shot to your mouth. When you hit the ground he’ll kick you and try to get you back up for gut shots and kidney hits. If he’s European he might even head-butt you. Soccer fans love that… can’t explain it. Prepare for some bruises and scratches. Cover your head and you should stay out of the hospital if he doesn’t have a bottle or stool in his hand that is. I hate this guy.
But other than these sad sacks, nobody is looking for a fight. But they happen. We are social animals that use drugs. What a combination. You’re going to get drunk and piss off another drunk and sometimes things can’t be solved with slurred words. Nothing can verbalize a punch. You can’t talk to a kick. Most chokeholds refuse to listen. Don’t worry. You might even be friends after. I promise. It’s a release. It’s not changing the world. It’s only a broken knuckle, wrist or nose. A cracked smile and a story to tell. You got into a fight.
My first fight in a bar started innocently enough. I was drunk. My ex, Sarah, was celebrating some promotion or big case closing or something with co-workers. I didn’t care. It was free drinks and I was invited. If the drinks were free, I would drink on the surface of the moon (or even Brighton Beach). This was a bar called the Shallow Well in the West Village, so the treat tonight was watered down expensive drinks for free. I was drinking Johnny Walker Black on the rocks. Well, it was on water on the rocks. Whatever. It was free.
As with most fancy dress affairs, she was schmoozing. Talking to all her friends and people of influence. She always had this fake smile and even faker laugh when with her “working” friends. Every once and awhile she would glance my way with her steel blue eyes and flash me the “don’t get too drunk, you’ll embarrass me” look. The drinks had more chlorine than alcohol in them so there was little chance of that. But I was giving it the college try.
I only really started downing them when she began entertaining one of her platinum-haired, 50-something, overly tanned bosses. Her hand on his lap, her black dress looked even shorter when next to this older man she fawned over. They share a laugh, he gets her another drink and I wince and turn away. Back to the watery whiskey and the hole it’s slowly filling. Forget misery; jealousy is the emotional demon that really enjoys company. I scanned the room for the first half-drunk twit secretary that was moderately alone.
Karen, receptionist, shoe with a broken heel. Perfect.
I made my way over to the mousey girl stirring her drink while starring off into the distance. The dialogue was as watery as my drink. Nice weather, good job, neat place, feeling kinda tipsy, how was your day? Nothing but mindless light words, but the booze lubricated the conversation into a more physical association. I swing my arm around her and she giggles and puts an unsteady hand on my knee. Gotcha! I look over to see if I can’t get the attention of my girlfriend and the silver fox she was eye fucking, but she’s alone. She’s looking at me with a glass of white wine in her hand and a look of disgusted amazement on her face.
I politely excuse myself from Karen’s drunken company and half run to Sarah at the bar. She is so furious she can barely look at me and is speaking in half stutter snarls.
“So you… fuck … you having a good time? A nice time with that slut?” She lingers on that last word for like 5 seconds too long. She downs the glass of wine and nearly breaks the stem slamming it on the bar. I try to settle her down with a cup of honesty.
“What can you possibly have to be mad about? We didn’t do anything and I KNOW I saw you cuddling up to that stuffed suit.” Turnabout is a bitch, but she’s drunk enough to be indignant.
“What are you talking about? Carl is a FRIEND and we were just talking.”
“You were talking while he was setting you up for a night of carnal bliss. Oh, and you looked REAL repulsed.”
“Fuck you! What the fuck do you know?” She’s now waving her glass at me and it’s about an inch from my face. She smells like wine, lip-gloss and sweat and she’s about twice as drunk as me. I guess I should have stuck with the wine.
As I am settling down this crazy woman and thinking of changing my drink order, a figure comes up behind Sarah and puts a hand on her shoulder. It’s her “friend” Carl.
“So I took care of the business with the accounting guys. You wanna take off? Find a place with a few less people?” His tone is confident and his voice is like gravel over smooth leather. And he’s not talking to me.
Sarah looks honestly embarrassed. The white skin turns scarlet from her nearly exposed chest and spreads to her worried face. My crimson color change begins in the corners of my eyes and on the knuckles of each fist. I let him know he’s not wanted and this is a private conversation.
“Back off you ancient fuck. She’s with me, grandpa.” It’s important to maintain a sense of dominance over an opponent. Belittle their prominent traits and give them a wide berth to back down. Claim your prize, tell the rival he needs to leave and make fun of his height if he’s short, looks if he’s ugly, clothes if they’re cheap or age if it suits him. This jerk has a foot on me and he looked like Remington Steele’s father, so I went with age. As expected he took offense, but he took the supposed high road.
“Sarah, darling, is the asshole bothering you?” The condescending prick. As I reel back and begin my approach I can feel my drunk settle into my stomach. I want blood. I raise my hands to his chest and give him a quick shove. The energy rises. The air is electric as he gives me a stare of pure hate. His drunk is almost as strong as mine and he wears is just as well. His tone switches from smooth foppishness to sticky acid.
“You little punk. You bit off more than you can handle son.” He is used to speaking down to people and it oozes from his every pore. He is the boss, the check signer and the Alpha Dog. He worked for a living and he would be damned if some tie-less hipster from Brooklyn will stand in the way of his good time. It’s an old story and one I am intimately familiar with.
He was just like my least favorite bully from back in high school. He never let me forget that he was older, wiser and stronger. And he never let me have an even break. It was his boot in my face and if I ever dared to step out of line he would drop a quick right cross into my cheek. This felt so familiar. Jump ahead thirty years and Carl could have been the same guy. It wouldn’t surprise me. And from that I can almost feel his next move. He drops his shoulder, raises his arm and sends me a quick email about where the hit is coming from. Even as drunk as I am, I am ready for it. I take a quick step back and let him continue his foolish swing, totally planning to slam the exposed side of his head.
But I couldn’t. Oh, it wasn’t my abhorrence of violence or anything (this guy was ripe for a beating). It was just that Sarah happened to block Carl’s punch with her left eye… and it kind of killed the mood.
I must admit she could take a hit. She buckled on the bar stool, but didn’t topple. Tears shrink-wrapping her unblinking eyes, she let out the most pathetic whimper. I’m still not sure which of the three was more shocked at this point. I just stood there like an exhausted tourist waiting for the bus. Carl looked like he wanted to run, but it was Sarah that grabbed her bag and went for the door. We both make several weak attempts to stop her, just to see if she’s okay. But she won’t be halted by any half-measures. Inconsolable, she is out the door and halfway down the block in a matter of seconds. The insanity unfolded before me, and it was too unbelievable to react to. Madness on drunkenness on violence, but the situation seemed more orderly than it did a minute earlier.
Both Carl and I stood there for what seemed like eons before I managed to break the thick, uncomfortable silence.
“Buy you a drink?”
Monday, December 4, 2006
Storytellers
It has to be the my phone making that horrible racket. Anyone who knows that they are going to be drinking in the evening (and the amount) turns off any morning alarm systems before they retire. It’s simple physics: drunks rise as late as physically possible. Someone should write that into collegiate science texts.
It’s my buddy Daren calling me with what he describes as a “great idea.”
“Let’s go to the discount beer place, stock up on some choice brews and watch some college football.”
“I don’t even know who’s playing today.” I reply weakly.
“But you know you like beer don’t you?”
He makes a good point. I do like the fine taste of a hoppy IPA after a long night of drinking hard liquor. Something flavorful to take the edge off the dead subway rat that seems to have made a nest under my tongue. Beer would work. And it’s always exciting to see anything on the fantastic 50 inch HDTV Daren was able to procure last month (through totally legal means I assure you). In the last few weeks, I had witnessed every major televised event on his flat paneled marvel. Football especially was a sight to behold.
“Alright, give me 15 minutes to make myself presentable.” More than enough time to change out of the clothes I passed out in and rub the crap out of my eyes. “Did you call Craig?”
“Yep, he’ll meet us there. See you in fifteen.”
I acknowledge the meeting time and flip my cell shut. Our weekly football triumvirate was meeting a day early. This could be an interesting weekend.
While Daren is more of a quantity over quality alcohol consumer, I am a quality (and then quantity) purest. Not to call my friend undiscerning (and he is), but if I am going to empty copious bottles of booze down my gullet, I want it to be something I don’t mind tasting on the way down.
In contrast to the both of us, Craig is much more sober. He DOES drink, and occasionally to excess, but not often or without reason. Craig is usually the one with his wits about him and always the one surfing the internet or reading a newspaper while the game is going on. He’s a multi-tasker with a limited attention to details. His stories are often disjointed fact followed by disjointed fact and getting drunk only exasperates the situation. Needless to say, Daren and I have been known to pick on him a bit during these weekend get-togethers.
The Thrifty American Beer Distributor is only three blocks from my apartment, but my hangover was impeding my progress. Brooklyn is a vivid, loud and constantly moving burg (even on a Saturday morning) and when your head feels like it’s full of bees then you are going to move rather slowly through the madness.
Craig and Daren are already waiting for me in front of the store by the time I shamble down the block. They are both laughing and making light of my obvious blinding hangover.
“You look like you haven’t even slept.” Daren observes “Where did you go?”
“Just some bar on Bleecker Street. They had this bourbon special that I took extreme advantage of.” Just saying it again is bringing back drunken memories. What was that girls name? We left separately so I guess it isn’t that horrible that I don’t remember.
“You sure you want to drink again so soon?” Craig is using his subtle buzzkill tactics, but it doesn’t matter. I desperately need to top off.
“Yeah, I’ll catch my second wind in no time. Let’s do this.”
Even hung-over, Thrifty is a fun experience: rows of imports, coolers of domestic and even a selection of kegs for the drunk with friends. We split-up and went looking for the specific brew that tickled our fancy. Daren, true to form, grabbed a 12-pack of Pabst and a six of Yingling. Craig got 2 bottles of some English cream stout, a six-pack of Diet Coke and backpack full of grief from the two of us. How do you go to the “Beer Store” and get soda?
Meanwhile, I picked up two 4-packs (weird) of the Dogfish Head 90 Minute Imperial IPA. A smooth, overly hopped beverage I was intensely looking forward to use as a way to drown out my now building headache. As we leave the store, a trucker leans on his horn while passing through the near intersection.
I visibly wince. “Ahh! I feel like Hemingway after the Gin is gone.”
Out of the blue (and without even looking up) Craig springs to life like a muppet with a hand up his ass.
“My dad met Hemingway once. He was in this bar in Spain and there were these chicks with him and they all had drinks and the next day they did the running of the bulls. Him and Hemingway did.” This is all in one breath and every word bleeds into the next. It wasn’t as much spoken by Craig as it was squeezed out of his face.
“What was that?” I say incredulously.
“Yeah,” responds Daren, missing the point “that a true story?”
“Of course it is.” Craig is defensive now. “Well, my dad told me it was.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.” I half yell. “The problem with the story is how he told it.”
“What’s wrong with that story?”
“I JUST said the story is fine. It’s a real strong story. A famous literary figure gets hammered with your father and two senoritas and then they play grab-ass with angry bovine. That’s a fantastic story. I love that story.”
This totally confuses Daren. “So what’s your problem man?”
“My problem is that he told that awesome story like a retard that just realized he could speak! This is an epic poem. It’s got sex and booze and action… and he shoves it out like a freaking turd. You need to learn how to say these things so you don’t look like a moron. Good stories need to be told well, or they are just like any other string of words you manage to cobble together.” I don’t care that I am talking down to him at this point. I am really pissed off he wasted a tale that amazing.
“So what was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know. It’s your story, but it should be something more interesting than the who, what and where.” I am starting to worry that my harsh critique of Craig’s anecdote is starting to bring down the afternoon… until Daren (not realizing this isn’t a contest) gets in one last word.
“Remember when I got my foot stuck in the toilet while doing that chick in the dorm bathroom?”
And suddenly I don’t feel like hearing anymore stories.
It’s my buddy Daren calling me with what he describes as a “great idea.”
“Let’s go to the discount beer place, stock up on some choice brews and watch some college football.”
“I don’t even know who’s playing today.” I reply weakly.
“But you know you like beer don’t you?”
He makes a good point. I do like the fine taste of a hoppy IPA after a long night of drinking hard liquor. Something flavorful to take the edge off the dead subway rat that seems to have made a nest under my tongue. Beer would work. And it’s always exciting to see anything on the fantastic 50 inch HDTV Daren was able to procure last month (through totally legal means I assure you). In the last few weeks, I had witnessed every major televised event on his flat paneled marvel. Football especially was a sight to behold.
“Alright, give me 15 minutes to make myself presentable.” More than enough time to change out of the clothes I passed out in and rub the crap out of my eyes. “Did you call Craig?”
“Yep, he’ll meet us there. See you in fifteen.”
I acknowledge the meeting time and flip my cell shut. Our weekly football triumvirate was meeting a day early. This could be an interesting weekend.
While Daren is more of a quantity over quality alcohol consumer, I am a quality (and then quantity) purest. Not to call my friend undiscerning (and he is), but if I am going to empty copious bottles of booze down my gullet, I want it to be something I don’t mind tasting on the way down.
In contrast to the both of us, Craig is much more sober. He DOES drink, and occasionally to excess, but not often or without reason. Craig is usually the one with his wits about him and always the one surfing the internet or reading a newspaper while the game is going on. He’s a multi-tasker with a limited attention to details. His stories are often disjointed fact followed by disjointed fact and getting drunk only exasperates the situation. Needless to say, Daren and I have been known to pick on him a bit during these weekend get-togethers.
The Thrifty American Beer Distributor is only three blocks from my apartment, but my hangover was impeding my progress. Brooklyn is a vivid, loud and constantly moving burg (even on a Saturday morning) and when your head feels like it’s full of bees then you are going to move rather slowly through the madness.
Craig and Daren are already waiting for me in front of the store by the time I shamble down the block. They are both laughing and making light of my obvious blinding hangover.
“You look like you haven’t even slept.” Daren observes “Where did you go?”
“Just some bar on Bleecker Street. They had this bourbon special that I took extreme advantage of.” Just saying it again is bringing back drunken memories. What was that girls name? We left separately so I guess it isn’t that horrible that I don’t remember.
“You sure you want to drink again so soon?” Craig is using his subtle buzzkill tactics, but it doesn’t matter. I desperately need to top off.
“Yeah, I’ll catch my second wind in no time. Let’s do this.”
Even hung-over, Thrifty is a fun experience: rows of imports, coolers of domestic and even a selection of kegs for the drunk with friends. We split-up and went looking for the specific brew that tickled our fancy. Daren, true to form, grabbed a 12-pack of Pabst and a six of Yingling. Craig got 2 bottles of some English cream stout, a six-pack of Diet Coke and backpack full of grief from the two of us. How do you go to the “Beer Store” and get soda?
Meanwhile, I picked up two 4-packs (weird) of the Dogfish Head 90 Minute Imperial IPA. A smooth, overly hopped beverage I was intensely looking forward to use as a way to drown out my now building headache. As we leave the store, a trucker leans on his horn while passing through the near intersection.
I visibly wince. “Ahh! I feel like Hemingway after the Gin is gone.”
Out of the blue (and without even looking up) Craig springs to life like a muppet with a hand up his ass.
“My dad met Hemingway once. He was in this bar in Spain and there were these chicks with him and they all had drinks and the next day they did the running of the bulls. Him and Hemingway did.” This is all in one breath and every word bleeds into the next. It wasn’t as much spoken by Craig as it was squeezed out of his face.
“What was that?” I say incredulously.
“Yeah,” responds Daren, missing the point “that a true story?”
“Of course it is.” Craig is defensive now. “Well, my dad told me it was.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.” I half yell. “The problem with the story is how he told it.”
“What’s wrong with that story?”
“I JUST said the story is fine. It’s a real strong story. A famous literary figure gets hammered with your father and two senoritas and then they play grab-ass with angry bovine. That’s a fantastic story. I love that story.”
This totally confuses Daren. “So what’s your problem man?”
“My problem is that he told that awesome story like a retard that just realized he could speak! This is an epic poem. It’s got sex and booze and action… and he shoves it out like a freaking turd. You need to learn how to say these things so you don’t look like a moron. Good stories need to be told well, or they are just like any other string of words you manage to cobble together.” I don’t care that I am talking down to him at this point. I am really pissed off he wasted a tale that amazing.
“So what was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know. It’s your story, but it should be something more interesting than the who, what and where.” I am starting to worry that my harsh critique of Craig’s anecdote is starting to bring down the afternoon… until Daren (not realizing this isn’t a contest) gets in one last word.
“Remember when I got my foot stuck in the toilet while doing that chick in the dorm bathroom?”
And suddenly I don’t feel like hearing anymore stories.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Might as well drink alone
Look at her. I can’t help but look at her. Her hair is a playful field of sun colored grain. Her bronze skin is brushed with crimson from the chilled autumn air. Her eyes, those steel blue eyes, pierce everything and reveal little more than a mirror would.
She is made of marble. The female form chiseled from cold rock to behold, but never to absorb. She is impenetrable both physically and mentally. Her barriers are quite complete.
Make no mistake, this isn’t malice she projects. Far from it. Her tone is kind and her words are pleasant, but the emotions are so guarded it’s like speaking in an empty room. I hear sounds, but they may just be echoes of my own words.
She answers every question I ask about her with prompt, correct and brief responses. She never submits ancillary information. Again, not due to mistrust, but because I didn’t ask. It’s as almost if she analyzes each letter she speaks. Making sure she doesn’t expose some hidden secret. It’s frustrating, mystifying and intoxicating. Or is it just the wine?
We drink and try to make conversation. Every drop seems to weather away her exterior a bit more. Cracks form in her silent mysterious outer trappings. I become excited and hopeful as I see her expose more of her internal (her words are looser) and external self (the bar is warm and her sweater is discarded). And finally the small talk is finished and we begin a descent into more intimate banter. A chance to delve deeper into what she wishes, desires, hopes and dreams. The discourse of discovery begins and as I pull away her protective shell I find… nothing underneath.
She’s an idiot. Worse than that, she’s boring. She wasn’t shy or guarded at all. It was all a clever ruse to hide the shallow, uncultured, oaf woman that resides in this stone idol. We may need another bottle of wine. Something red, full-bodied and cheap. I don’t think she could tell Merlot from Miller.
Sipping more vigorously, we begin to switch roles as I slip into a silent observer and she lets flow the essence of her being. From what I can gather from her incoherent slurred ramblings, she is a materialistic princess that has become accustomed to using her looks and her family’s money to overcome her ignorance and bigotry. She has gone from aloof to boring and has finally settled on obnoxious. I want to flay her alive by the time she orders another round.
By the time we are through with this bottle, neither of us seems able to continue. I am half asleep and she can barely stand. Even with all those faults reviled earlier, the fact that she can’t hold her liquor is currently the most offensive. I drag her from her seat, stuff her into her coat and scarf and pull her to the curb.
Amazingly, I am able to help dress her and hail a cab in under sixty seconds. Just as she is about to stumble into her canary hued carriage, she throws her arms around me and places her head on my shoulder for a discomfited drunken embrace. I reciprocate by lightly patting her on the back with an arm I was able to wrench free from her grip. After another awkward pause, I shake her loose and deposit her into the waiting taxi.
She smiles, thanks me for a wonderful evening, and proceeds to lie down in the back of the cab, slowly slinking below my line of sight until she’s completely out of view. Exactly where I want her. I no longer want to look at this statuesque beauty who is as thick as her earthen medium. I make a mental note to lose her number as soon as I get home.
She is made of marble. The female form chiseled from cold rock to behold, but never to absorb. She is impenetrable both physically and mentally. Her barriers are quite complete.
Make no mistake, this isn’t malice she projects. Far from it. Her tone is kind and her words are pleasant, but the emotions are so guarded it’s like speaking in an empty room. I hear sounds, but they may just be echoes of my own words.
She answers every question I ask about her with prompt, correct and brief responses. She never submits ancillary information. Again, not due to mistrust, but because I didn’t ask. It’s as almost if she analyzes each letter she speaks. Making sure she doesn’t expose some hidden secret. It’s frustrating, mystifying and intoxicating. Or is it just the wine?
We drink and try to make conversation. Every drop seems to weather away her exterior a bit more. Cracks form in her silent mysterious outer trappings. I become excited and hopeful as I see her expose more of her internal (her words are looser) and external self (the bar is warm and her sweater is discarded). And finally the small talk is finished and we begin a descent into more intimate banter. A chance to delve deeper into what she wishes, desires, hopes and dreams. The discourse of discovery begins and as I pull away her protective shell I find… nothing underneath.
She’s an idiot. Worse than that, she’s boring. She wasn’t shy or guarded at all. It was all a clever ruse to hide the shallow, uncultured, oaf woman that resides in this stone idol. We may need another bottle of wine. Something red, full-bodied and cheap. I don’t think she could tell Merlot from Miller.
Sipping more vigorously, we begin to switch roles as I slip into a silent observer and she lets flow the essence of her being. From what I can gather from her incoherent slurred ramblings, she is a materialistic princess that has become accustomed to using her looks and her family’s money to overcome her ignorance and bigotry. She has gone from aloof to boring and has finally settled on obnoxious. I want to flay her alive by the time she orders another round.
By the time we are through with this bottle, neither of us seems able to continue. I am half asleep and she can barely stand. Even with all those faults reviled earlier, the fact that she can’t hold her liquor is currently the most offensive. I drag her from her seat, stuff her into her coat and scarf and pull her to the curb.
Amazingly, I am able to help dress her and hail a cab in under sixty seconds. Just as she is about to stumble into her canary hued carriage, she throws her arms around me and places her head on my shoulder for a discomfited drunken embrace. I reciprocate by lightly patting her on the back with an arm I was able to wrench free from her grip. After another awkward pause, I shake her loose and deposit her into the waiting taxi.
She smiles, thanks me for a wonderful evening, and proceeds to lie down in the back of the cab, slowly slinking below my line of sight until she’s completely out of view. Exactly where I want her. I no longer want to look at this statuesque beauty who is as thick as her earthen medium. I make a mental note to lose her number as soon as I get home.
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