Wednesday, September 08, 2004

Just like old times! Damnit.

Last night I decided to meet up with my brother so we could share our trip stories (he was in NYC-London-Amsterdam). So, we meet up at DeVille.

Now I had no intention of getting completely sloshed, but there were some circumstances that were seriously working against stable sobriety. Namely: I was operating on four hours of sleep, two pencil-thin breakfast tacos (all day mind you, for breakfast, no lunch or dinner), and I really haven't pounded them down in several weeks (so my tolerance is shifty at best). Evil circumstances, indeed.

An hour into it, my brother finally shows up. The bartenders where killing it on a karaoke machine that had to have been brought in by professionals. The songbook was long, and it was lousy with hair-band rock. The bartenders practically abandoned the bar to hit the stage singing G&R after G&R tunes. I was pretty numb when my brother strolled in and started warming the seat next to me. Another hour after we caught up on the goings-ons and what-have-you, I passed out. Mid-sentence. At the bar. On my stool. With no warning.

Awesome.

Bro walked me out to the parking lot, shoveled me into the passenger seat of his car, and left with my keys to re-park my truck where it wouldn't be towed. (Very kind of him, I might add) While he was valeting my ride, I peeped my head out of his car for a nice yak. Beer frothed forth from my mouth onto the parking lot. I looked up and could see someone on stage singing something stupid, staring, horrified, at me while I yawned brown liquid. I just grinned and kept the flow going. What the hell else was I supposed to do? This kind of activity never waits for a private moment. They couldn't sing for shit, anyway. Maybe they thought their awful rendition of that Human League song was forcing me to purge. Whatever man.

Bro returns and pushes my head back into the vehicle, closes my door, and drives me to his couch. That's where I woke up this morning, feeling like I had been gang-banged by a bunch of needle-dicked hippos that preferred the ear for penetration. Bro left a bottle of Advil on the coffee table, knowing that I would be broken come morning.

I got to work wearing all the same garments as the day before, save for a button-up shirt that I had given to Bro several years back (when I moved to NYC for a stint). So, all day at work, I have had this crazy Napoleon Dynamite fro and stankin' teeth. No one has commented for the worse of it.

I guess, what I am really posting here, is that while it is rather sad to have gone so far on a school night... I cannot say that I am really bothered by it. Well, I am bothered enough to write it down, which says something, but I doubt I'd remember the evening at all if it weren't so fresh in my mind. And my mouth tastes like poo. Until I get a proper brushing done, I'll be in constant memory of last night's idiocy.

So, here's to those who ball-out every now and again. Here's to those who haplessly fall victim to their own lack of proper binge-planning. Here's to those who accidentally turn a harmless Tuesday night beer into a mini-bender. Here's to those of us who recognize that it is indeed silly to be in that situation, but are aware that we aren't alone, and that in ten years: none of it will make a squirt of piss's difference anyhow.
Real drink story to post later. Feel free to write me recommendations...

1 comment:

carmenjayne said...

you're lucky your bro was there to pull the needle dicked hippos offa you! write a drunk story that has me in it!!