Effectively Inebriated was I, Last Night on the Lower East Side.
It's Sid's fault. I blame it all on Sid.
Hoagie, Sid's brother, and I had been trying to figure out where to have Sid's big birthday bash, which is scheduled to occur in a few weeks. Everyone is down to take him to a strip club for a few lap dances and glitter girl giggles, but damn that Sid - he's got morals. That dang douchebag has morals that prevent him from seeing and experiencing hot chicks do what they do best while they work their ways through med/law/business school. A strip joint would've been so easy - it requires little work to find a decent joint in which to hold a young man's soiree, AND it would come with stimulating, built-in entertainment. Unlike a bar where we'd have to work hard to get him sauced up so he'll loosen up and have a little fun - and even then he's been known to be an unpredictable drunk; one never knows if the buzz will make him laugh, cry, or swing at your head full-throttle!
It's Friday and Hoagie is down to check out a couple of bars in the name of research for Sid's party. After a rough work week, so am I. Grabbing my bag and coat, a half-willing coworker, and every intention on staying for an hour tops at each place, which would put me at home by 11:00, I make my escape and head southeast toward a couple of hours of beats and booze. We get to Norfolk Street and Bettie's Bar is bumpin' with the after-work crowd ready to cleanse its collective mind of any traumatic work-related events from the past week. I am definitely in the right place. Finding Hoagie and his friends, my coworker and I settle in and are ready to engage in the serious business of seeking alcoholic clarity.
A former patron of vodka and tequila, now I only drink red wine (ever since the tequila/beer buster incident) to get my buzz on. Alcoholic, sure, but at least I'll be absorbing some antioxidants along with that drunken stupor.
Two bars and four glasses later, I am blissfully teetering on my barstool, high on crushed grapes and the retro house and hip hop thumping out of some powerful bar speakers. Everything is so incredibly hilarious when I'm drunk. From Hoagie's unassuming brand of humor to my coworker's story about the time that nicely-racked blonde shoved said rack in his face while trying to feed him broccoli, to anything and nothing at all. Everything's so friggin' funny I fail to remember how much alcohol it really takes to get me stupid tipsy; so I knock it back mindlessly until I hit the brink of wanting to puke my acidic guts out.
Waiting on the Brooklyn-bound F train platform at 1:00 a.m. in work attire while not being able to see straight or stand still in one spot due to fear of falling over is not the most desirable experience. Hoagie and my coworker got off at their respective stops after reminding me several times to sit up straight and stay awake, for crying out loud. People drifted on and off the train in an extended blur as I struggled to keep my eyelids from collapsing shut. At 168th street, a nice lady gently nudged me awake as she explained that this was the last stop and we all had to get on the shuttle to go further uptown. A large, nicely-dressed man with a congenial laugh said, "Wow you were really knocked out there!" Yes, I nodded. Yes I was.
The spouse was all too happy to get a phone call from me at 3 a.m. requesting that he pick me up at the bus terminal, since it was closed and there was no other way for me to get over the water into New Jersey other than walking the GWB. An evening of quick and plentiful swill had yielded me the most impenetrable Wall of Silence this side of the equator, as well as a powerful headache that lasted hours after waking up this morning. Oh, The Hangover; a friend whom I thought long lost and completely avoidable as part of the marriage deal. Not so, as every waking moment following my night of rare indulgence has been plagued with pure uselessness. That's all I am today. Purely Useless.
I blame Sid. Damn that Sid and his morals. If he were into strip joints, I wouldn't be in this mess. It's all Sid's fault.
Hoagie, Sid's brother, and I had been trying to figure out where to have Sid's big birthday bash, which is scheduled to occur in a few weeks. Everyone is down to take him to a strip club for a few lap dances and glitter girl giggles, but damn that Sid - he's got morals. That dang douchebag has morals that prevent him from seeing and experiencing hot chicks do what they do best while they work their ways through med/law/business school. A strip joint would've been so easy - it requires little work to find a decent joint in which to hold a young man's soiree, AND it would come with stimulating, built-in entertainment. Unlike a bar where we'd have to work hard to get him sauced up so he'll loosen up and have a little fun - and even then he's been known to be an unpredictable drunk; one never knows if the buzz will make him laugh, cry, or swing at your head full-throttle!
It's Friday and Hoagie is down to check out a couple of bars in the name of research for Sid's party. After a rough work week, so am I. Grabbing my bag and coat, a half-willing coworker, and every intention on staying for an hour tops at each place, which would put me at home by 11:00, I make my escape and head southeast toward a couple of hours of beats and booze. We get to Norfolk Street and Bettie's Bar is bumpin' with the after-work crowd ready to cleanse its collective mind of any traumatic work-related events from the past week. I am definitely in the right place. Finding Hoagie and his friends, my coworker and I settle in and are ready to engage in the serious business of seeking alcoholic clarity.
A former patron of vodka and tequila, now I only drink red wine (ever since the tequila/beer buster incident) to get my buzz on. Alcoholic, sure, but at least I'll be absorbing some antioxidants along with that drunken stupor.
Two bars and four glasses later, I am blissfully teetering on my barstool, high on crushed grapes and the retro house and hip hop thumping out of some powerful bar speakers. Everything is so incredibly hilarious when I'm drunk. From Hoagie's unassuming brand of humor to my coworker's story about the time that nicely-racked blonde shoved said rack in his face while trying to feed him broccoli, to anything and nothing at all. Everything's so friggin' funny I fail to remember how much alcohol it really takes to get me stupid tipsy; so I knock it back mindlessly until I hit the brink of wanting to puke my acidic guts out.
Waiting on the Brooklyn-bound F train platform at 1:00 a.m. in work attire while not being able to see straight or stand still in one spot due to fear of falling over is not the most desirable experience. Hoagie and my coworker got off at their respective stops after reminding me several times to sit up straight and stay awake, for crying out loud. People drifted on and off the train in an extended blur as I struggled to keep my eyelids from collapsing shut. At 168th street, a nice lady gently nudged me awake as she explained that this was the last stop and we all had to get on the shuttle to go further uptown. A large, nicely-dressed man with a congenial laugh said, "Wow you were really knocked out there!" Yes, I nodded. Yes I was.
The spouse was all too happy to get a phone call from me at 3 a.m. requesting that he pick me up at the bus terminal, since it was closed and there was no other way for me to get over the water into New Jersey other than walking the GWB. An evening of quick and plentiful swill had yielded me the most impenetrable Wall of Silence this side of the equator, as well as a powerful headache that lasted hours after waking up this morning. Oh, The Hangover; a friend whom I thought long lost and completely avoidable as part of the marriage deal. Not so, as every waking moment following my night of rare indulgence has been plagued with pure uselessness. That's all I am today. Purely Useless.
I blame Sid. Damn that Sid and his morals. If he were into strip joints, I wouldn't be in this mess. It's all Sid's fault.