I Will Survive (?)
Last night I attended yet another send-off to a departing co-worker, this time at a strange Karaoke bar on Canal St. Impeccable renditions of tarty-pop ditties and disco standards were delivered by all the queens, and the ironic indy-hipsters tried really hard at statement-making with their takes on New Order, Snoop Dogg and Black Sabbath. Surprisingly, a heavyset black chick that I don't know too well stole the show with fun-drunk beltings of Bon Jovi and Staind chestnuts. I was fortunately able to avoid the spotlight, but I figured if I was forced to participate I could always rely on an Elvis or Johnny Cash classic, since men who can't sing to save their mothers' lives could at least pull these off with out too much humiliation. I probably put down a good hundred bucks on overpriced Coronas and a handful of french fries, which wasn't so cool I guess.
Keeping in mind the sad fact that no one ever calls me on my cellphone, imagine my irritated surprise when the beautiful Tommy, the sinister IRA Kevin, the timid Gay Roomie and my business-minded mother all attempted to reach me during the gays' performance of "I Will Survive". I find it bizarre that Tommy is trying to contact me so much lately, given that he never calls anyone ever. There must be something he's trying to tell me.
When I returned home (drunk, of course), a late birthday present courtesy of my San Francisco-based friend Jenny was waiting for me: a wind-up bat that you're supposed to tie on a string to the ceiling and watch it fly around in circles (although I can't find the string and am reluctant to drill it into the ceiling). I guess that's why she tried to call me that weekend-- to see if I received it-- and not just to scare the shit out of me with tales of her mysterious stomach ailments.
This will be Gay Roomie's last night at the apartment before moving back to his parents' crib. I'll remain for another week before I have to move all my shit and own personage to God-knows where, assuming my new place will still not be ready at that time. I don't know exactly when I'll be able to do this, because I know I won't get it together by this weekend and next weekend is Alex's motherfucking Poughkeepsie wedding.
I'm starting to get some stomach ailments of my own right now...