My birthday holds little significance to most human beings other than myself, namely because it is my birthday. However, it will always have a special significance to a few of those hearty souls in the rancid State of New York, who enjoy the opening day of deer season the same day. Do not confuse yourself; I happen to like venison, fresh venison especially. I however was in toxic waste we call New Jersey, a region so barren and futile in existence, only Florida can rival it for political shenanigans. But this is a rant for another time.
I crashed at my friend Francois’ house for the weekend and planed for a Saturday night filled with alcohol, alcohol, and of course, everyone’s favorite, beer. Our first trip was to a bar (big surprise) to get wasted (bigger surprise) and see a cover band play some 1980’s heavy metal, the music of choice for the true worldly connoisseur of fine tastes. The bar was probably the best thing around for the 40 years old and aging poorly group. There were a total of four individuals under the age of 38 in the entire establishment: Me, Francois, Bobby, the night’s designated driver and some 11 year old girl probably (hopefully) there with her parents. We waited until the band took it’s first break and quietly slipped out the door into the night. It was a real shame too, the band kicked some serious ass.
And so the search for life, vibrant, glowing, short-skirted, 22-year-old blond life continued. It’s kind of a downer that three well-rounded, college edumacated, enlightened, voting young men can’t make a simple fricken decision on whether or not to go to Manhattan or Bayonne with out a sort of painful, bush beating, “hurry up and decide before we hit the concrete divider” ordeal. Robert finally launched a coup on our ineptitudianal indecision and at the last moment switched lanes heading for THE CITY.
They knew a place,called Down the Hatch, which boasts life proceeding the mid-life crisis years, and decided to make a few rounds there. Well, there certainly was no short amount of girls with their boyfriends and ten other friends. I won’t even bother getting into the drunk bar rag that couldn’t seem to move with out trying to stuff herself into my coat pocket and in the process sending me, the table we were at, and the dining couple we shared it with one full somersault over. But some good did manage to manifest itself during the night, Roberto, managed to land a phone number from a white girl living in Spanish Harlem. And me, well, I had the honor of finishing four or five pitchers of beer. Sam Adams, I do enjoy thee.
I learned a few things too that night, for instance, no matter how stewed I might be, no matter how jolly that I might appear, I’m still a heartless cynical bastard. Also, mounds of Tabasco on all your fried food or just a plain down the whole bottle shot is entirely more possible when you’re nerve endings have been generously inhibited by gratuitous quantities of our good ol’ pal alcohol. There is now an all night diner in lower Manhattan whose staff believes me to be insane. That was Francois’ excuse for my little stunt when one of the waiters asked why any rational, sane individual would do something so obviously wacky. Twenty-two foul years on this godforsaken planet and with that I may have hit the pinnacle of my existence.
Well, after we dropped Boberino’s Lady Fair off at her place, which put a good half hour on our adventure and during which time, I retired from consciousness to the comfort of drunken sleep, we headed back to the sewer pipe of NYC, Jersey City, NJ. Rob and Francois most philanthropically poured me out of the front passenger seat and I charged up the stairs to make use of the facilities, after which time, I rejoined my old friend sleep and dreamt a demented little dream. Then it was back to the work-a-day world of my old nemesis, Monday.
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