Drunken Recollection… Return Of The Hangover

On the taxi ride from Tom’s Restaurant back to East Village, Steve passed out quickly, and not soon after, I followed suit.  Tim bid us farewell, and I remained awake for our ride back to Midtown.  The taxi that narrowly missed crashing into the backseat where I was sitting probably helped…

EPISODE VI
RETURN OF THE HANGOVER

Upon reaching our final destination without reaching the final destination, Steve decided he wanted some more food.  I think I agreed.  We remembered seeing a Taco Bell on our way to the pizzeria the day before, so we ambled forth in search of late night seasoned beef and cheese and tortillas and rice…

The next morning, after awakening in our dirty Snuggies, we tried recalling the run for the border.  We remembered that it was more like a regular deli that had a Taco Bell in the back.  The Taco Bell was closed, yet the front remained in business.  Weird.  Steve didn’t think he purchased any food, and I cannot confirm or deny that fact, but I do know he inquired about it.

Steve – “How much for pizza?”

Worker – “$3.50 a slice.”

Steve – “I’ll give you three for a half.”

The rest is fuzzy, and so was Steve.  He wasn’t feeling too hot on the morning of our ride home, whereas this time, I felt fine.  Upon learning of my faux pas regarding the hot dog joint/secret bar, we made the decision to seek it out properly before leaving.  We had to know if it truly did exist.

So on the way to the subway station at Times Square, we stopped at this place to get cupcakes:

"No doubt that bakery’s got all da bomb frostins/ I love those cupcakes like McAdams loves Gosling." RIP "The Notebook" Love

"No doubt that bakery’s got all da bomb frostins/ I love those cupcakes like McAdams loves Gosling." RIP "The Notebook" Love

While outside enjoying “da bomb frostins,” we bore witness to a scene straight out of Police Academy.  A short cop was surrounded by tall European women,  in their late teens to mid-twenties (with an elder or two over-seeing them), and he was posing for pictures with them. 

There were well over a dozen of them (a baker’s dozen?), and he had to make sure there was variety in his stylings.  When Steve and I walked into Magnolia, he was letting them put on his hat and hold his night stick.  When we were eating, he was fastening handcuffs on one of the girls.  I just imagined that if he was called for an emergency, he’d leave her behind locked up.

From there, we took the subway to Union Square, and met up with Tim and Mike again.  Tim was excited and had this to say:

I’ve finally made a union with someone at Union Square.

Anyhotdog, our final mission before leaving NYC was to locate this secret bar.  It was not far from our point of departure the night before, and here’s what we found:

Not too be confused with Mark's Place.

Not too be confused with Mark's Place.

Once inside, I stared at the counter of the narrow establishment seeking out the phone booth that would lead us to the bar called P.D.T. (Please Don’t Tell).  I turned left, and there it was:

Get Smart... or Superman?

Get Smart... or Superman?

I pushed open the door, and the guy behind the counter told me it didn’t open until six.  Bummer city.

Lift the receiver and wait for approval to enter the secret bar.

Lift the receiver and wait for approval to enter the secret bar.

We ordered some dogs.  I had mine made Seattle-style, in honor of this upcoming weekend’s trip.  (It’s cream cheese on a hot dog in a bun.)  From there, we made our way back to Madison Square Garden and Penn Station.  And from there back to Newark, and then back

toward 

home.

*sniff*

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Drunken Recollection… Drinking Math Still Sucks

Math is fun (yeah, right).  And as I’ve mentioned before, drinking math is not.

So today, I’m just going to lay out some basic numbers when it comes to me and my imbibing.

  • Number of miles that I’m able to handle a hangover: 21.44
  • Maximum number of hours I can handle working: 6.5
  • Maximum number of hours I can handle drinking: 8
  • Percentage of beer left in bottle before I order next bottle: 50
  • Number of days per week I’m at the bar: 4
  • Number of days per weekend I’m at the bar: 1
  • Average time I should stay at each bar on St. Patrick’s Day: 2
  • Amount of bars I would like to visit on St. Patrick’s Day: 6
  • Amount of bars I will actually visit on St. Patrick’s Day: 3, tops

Also, here’s a chart I made based on many experiences:

Dmitri Martin eat your Taco Bell heart out!

Demetri Martin eat your Cheesy Double Beef Burrito out!

Drunken Recollection… Late Night Repo’s Are Buzzkills

The weekend was a jam-packed one, and it didn’t leave me much time for any kind of self-reflection and intellectual introspection that I usually reserve for this blog.  (Yeah, right.)  Let me rewind the events of the weekend to get to Friday, a random night where not much happened other than random things…

vvrp verp Car dealership, free car battery under warranty during oil change vrip vrap Work day spent finishing weekend work vrrp vvip Trivia comeback to no win during NHL All-Star game where there were no Red Wings plus Pistons barely lose to Rockets vvvp Ate out at Chili’s vvvp Visited Grams vvvp Met up old friends Saturday night vvvp After working vvvp After nursing hangover… click clackCLUNK

Okay, rewinding was about as exciting as the Twitter experiment (again, yeah right)… Basically, on Friday, my brother was working in a speakeasy, so to speak.  It was an interactive play that took place during the 20’s, that acted as a fundraiser for a local theatre troop.  I passed the goons guarding the door using the password that not many guessed.

Re-enactment:

Goon: “What’s the password?”

Me: “What.”

Goon: “You may enter.”

My other family members worked the open bar so in my double-fisting of rum and cokes, the ratio of everything went like this:

PLASTIC < COKE < ICE < HANDS < RUM

In turn, this lead to me achieving a sufficient level of what I call “Wedding Drunk” (it’s a different form of “Superhero Drunk” and fodder for a future post).  As the festivities wound down, the group I was with headed to a local hole-in-the-wall bar, where I proceded to karaoke a Weezer song after my cousin Steve ignited the party with his rendition of “Sweet Caroline” (also fodder for another post).

My brother was absent from this collection of the acting troupe, and our rides were kicked out for being trashed (well, at least Richie was the one deemed smashed out of the Venessa and Jess Trifecta).  Steve and I were left behind with the Actors! and someone else offered to drive us to an afterparty once the bar started closing.

(SIDE STORY: Steve had spotted one woman earlier in the night that made him proclaim – “She will be flashing her breasts at some point tonight.”  He was right.  The things you learn while away at college.)

To be honest, I have never seen such a magnificent driver as Kate, a.k.a. She who drove Steve and I elsewhere.  While searching for Toto’s Africa and Asia’s Heat of the Moment on her Zune, her path never waivered – not one bit.  We were going to drive to her house to pick up her dog, but we kept driving around through a subdivision and eventually ended up at the final destination.  We wondered why we didn’t stop and get the dog.  Kate’s answer:

My boyfriend was there.

Around 3am, the repo man showed up and took our gracious host’s truck.  Major buzzkill.  We called for a taxi.  (They hung up on us repeatedly while we were trying to figure out where we were.)  We parted ways with the Actors! around 4am.  I b.s.’d with the bald driver of the Chrysler 300 about life, politics, the universe, and religion, and ate macaroni and cheese once back at the Trifecta’s homebase.

In closing… Viva la Wedding Drunk!  Boo-Hiss Repo Men!

Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Being A Boob And Having A Ball

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this one is about what happened after a bachelor party… and it’s not quite what you think…

I’ve been to more than a few bachelor parties in my time.  Some have occurred on buses that took us to magical places (two of the best adventures, I must admit).  Most times, the magic visits upon us.  One time, and only one time, the bachelor wanted nothing to do with any of the magic, so his uncle enjoyed the sanctioned magic instead.  Another time, we sought out all kinds of magic in a city where magic never sleeps.  But I digress…

On the day of this story, the magic was visiting us.  I had planned on calling it an early night, since I had something to do, early the next morn.  Five beers tops, I promised myself.  But unlike the other shindigs I had been to, this one had kegs rather than cans or bottles (this was early in my bachelor party years), and my plastic cup never ran empty, courtesy of the handled couriers that were passed around.

When the magicians finally arrived (some extras appeared unannounced), the festivities flared.  Cash flashed (amongst other things), and soon the booze was tapped dry.   Due to the inundation of said magic and the awkward payment situations that followed, the party abruptly came to an end.  Phase One, anyway.  My initial hope to cut-and-run was quickly forgotten when Phase Two was announced.

In probably not the safest collected cavalcade, we embarked on a journey to the oldest part of town, where the Big Three Kings once ruled.  We visited an establishment that specialized in, um, magic, and as the night and my buzz winded down, I recalled my plans:  “I have the GRE tomorrow!”

I bid my farewells and ferried off left.  The next morning was to clarity as glass was to stone.

As I say in the lobby of the testing facility, I glanced at the other patrons.  I was the best dressed, I decided, mostly because they were all still in their pajamas, and I wore what I… slept… in.

We had to sign a form beforehand that required us to write a paragraph in cursive.  I failed to recall any of the letters, namely the capital-I which began the paragraph “I agree… blah, blah, blah.”  Looking around the room for any clue, my eyes stumbled upon the heroine of the show.

(I should note that in situations like these, I always daydream that the surrounding players and I are the cast of a TV show.  I’m the hero, of course, and I have to pick my supporting cast.  This daydream involved the rest of the world disappearing outside of the clinic’s walls, and us survivors picking up the pieces of… whatever.)

Somehow, my heroine sensed my selection of her as my co-star, and she looked up from writing.  I asked, “How do you make a cursive capital-I?”

When I was called into the interview room, the nebbish gentleman verifying my identity asked if I had any questions.  I did.  “Do you have any aspirin?”

Without irony or any further prompting, he leaned back and shifted his gaze upon me.  “Do you work for… them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you work for… the company?”  (I swear this happened.  It wasn’t hangover induced or a daydream.)

“What are talking about?”

Finally, he relaxed and explained that the parent corporation that hosts the testing will send in dummy clients to test workers.  He told me they were not allowed to give out “medication.”  I reminded him it was only an aspirin that I wanted; he gave me the option of leaving to purchase some prior to hitting the questions.

“I’ll survive.”

The exam was equally grueling and a blur.  The first math section was Headache Incarnate, but it was the essay that I’ll never forget.  I had to write a piece on… well, that part I forget.  All I remember from the whole experience was that I ended up going on and on about Tiger Woods.  About how I feel his naturally talents could have possibly been squandered by being put into golf at such an early age.  On how his mind might have been built to tackle insane astrophysics or abstract geometry – not to hit a little ball in a hole far away.  I don’t believe I ever made my point in the essay, and I remember rushing to even finish a sentence before the clock ran out on the computer.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Drunken ramblings work better as vocal rants than as GRE essays.

InASense, Lost… There’s Always Room For Jello – From Hell!

After a full day of recovery from the nightmare that was New Years Day (although I did enjoy the NHL Winter Classic game between the Detroit Red Wings and the Chicago Blackhawks and “Hamlet 2“), I can finally pinpoint and take issue with the source of my dismay: Jello Shots.

I will be having nightmares.

I will be having nightmares.

Now, in concept and in limited amount, Jello shots aren’t really much trouble.  They’re not much of anything, other than, I guess the illusion of fun.

But here’s the truth – they’re time bombs.  Ticking wiggly fruit-flavored time bombs.  Especially if you eat, like, 30 of them (maybe it was less, but to say less seems wussy… so I’m sticking with 30!).  On top of that, you’ve been working on polishing off a keg for four hours.  And I know my body has a rough go at handling one kind of liquor, let alone a plethora.

Fuck those little sweet M-80’s.  I pray I never seem them again for awhile any time soon.

Bill Cosby… how could you have forsaken me?

Laziness Springs/Summers Eternal In The Winter

As I was finally shovelling the snow in front of my house today, two people commented on it.  (SIDENOTE: I probably would not have cleared the walkways if it was not 54° outside somehow,as opposed to, say, -8°.)

The first was a neighborhood kid from across the street that always beats the ever-living shit out of my door and doorbell when he wants to shovel the snow or cut my grass.  This is a routine we share because if I do answer, I tell him, “no, I’m gonna do it” (and usually don’t), or I don’t answer at all due to hangover/overall laziness.  I had dreams of making perpetual use of his services a few years back.  It was a world where I never had to pull out the mower or shovel ever again, but he blew it by not doing that great of a job.  (Two caveats: I did pay him $10 before I left, and it was the second snowfall on top of ice, but still…) 

Today, he started with, “Need help?”

“No, I’m gonna do it.”

Then he followed with, “Don’t you think it’s a little late to shovel now?”

To which I snapped back, “At least it’s getting done.”  If I had faith the temperature would have melted it all, I wouldn’t have put forth the effort, but it is Michigan.

The second encounter I had was with the mail carrier, and it was because of her I was doing this at all.

“A little late, aren’t you?” she started.  It has been over a week since the snow fell twice and turned to ice.  “You get my letter?”  Every year, the mail carrier and I also share a dance – I wait for the snow to melt; the mail carrier gives me form letters telling me to shovel my snow before it melts.

“It always melts after the snowfall.  This one just took a little longer to happen.”

She gave me a look as she gave me the mail.

“It’s a weird day.  I could be shovelling snow in shorts.”

“I’ll take this weather anytime.”

I wished her a Happy New Year’s and we made peace.  At least ’til the next snow fall. 

P.S. …I think I’m going to start having deliveries come to my office in the new year.

Through sleet, through snow, through rain, through Tattooine...

Neither rain nor hail nor sleet nor Jedi...