Monday, September 20, 2004
the weekend, the rain, and vodka
Ugh, Monday. Not only is it the first day of the week, but it's my longest too - I come into work early, since I leave early for class, so I'm running on all cylinders from 8:45am - 7:30pm (by "running on all cylinders" I mean "checking the internet and my fantasy football teams", "zoning out pretty hard core from about 2:30 until 4", and "dreaming about boobies in class").
But let's focus on the weekend instead, shall we?
What you need to know:
Friday night = crap.
Saturday night = good.
Many lessons learned.
If you want, you can stop reading now. Because that's basically the entire point of this post. So there. Don't say I never did anything for you, and now maybe next time when I ask you for a $600 loan to pay off some gambling debts, you'll give it to me. Dick.
Let's start with Friday (you really can skip down to Saturday, because nothing much happened here, and I am still bitter and angry and a little tired because of it).
My friends came to town on Friday. They are some buddies from Philly, and I was greatly looking forward to their arrival. They had promised me an exciting and riotous time. One thing stood in the way of our good time: the fucking rain.
You see, we had tickets to the Yankees game on Friday night. I continually checked the forecast whilst (awesome word) at work on Friday, and it called for rain starting at 3pm on Friday and continuing until 3pm on Saturday.
As it became apparent that they would call the game because of the rain, I began to hope that the rain would come on time, and the Yankee game would be called before I dragged my fat ass up to the Bronx and got soaked. I don't do well in the rain - when my abundant yet luxurious body hair gets wet, it adds about forty pounds to my body weight, and makes me tired.
But since god and I are no longer on speaking terms after the whole El Paso 2001 fiasco, though the sky was dark and cloudy, the rain didn't come until we had settled in at the game. In the middle of the second inning, there was a rain delay. The rain was coming down in buckets, ruining my fucking hot dog (Yankee Stadium, by the way, has the WORST hotdogs in the world - and you know that coming from me, this means something) and making everyone grumpy.
The delay lasted a short while, and the game soon resumed. However, it started raining again, this time much harder than the first, and there was another delay.
At this point, we were at our breaking point. We were all tired, soggy, pissed off, and one of us had accidentally taken a Xanax because he thought it was an Excedrin (Ben, I'm looking in your direction). We figured that the game would be called, so after 45 minutes of the rain delay we all decided to leave the stadium.
When we got home, it was still pouring. We were patting ourselves on the back at what a great decision we made - beating the mass of people that was surely streaming out of the stadium, as it was plain to see that with rain this hard the game would be cancelled.
Except it wasn't cancelled. Since my buddies are degenerate gamblers, they get ESPN through their cell phones and that tipped us off that the game was actually going on.
And so it was an awesome game, and we missed it. We didn't even get to see it on TV. We checked every ESPN channel and YES, not realizing that the game was on CBS. So instead of being at one of the more exciting games of the year, we sat in my apartment drinking Coors Light, watching Cubs vs. Reds, and getting scoring updates through cell phones.
Not good times.
Of course, my friends (and roommates) said I was the mastermind behind the decision to leave, and thus broke my balls big time about it. I took it in stride, because I was pretty fucking drunk and didn't think I'd remember much of it anyway.
My friends left disgusted the next day, and I don't know if we're ever going to speak again. Which is fine with me, because now that they're out of my life, I can focus more of my energy on what I love most: kicking ass and breaking hearts. And looking out for number one. And eating Cheez-Its. I recently rediscovered them, and they are dynamite.
Saturday was much better. After my buddies left, my roommates and I started the boozing, as we were going to my buddy Kyle's going away party.
The party was in Brooklyn, a terrain I rarely, if ever, venture into. However, Kyle is a good friend, another person leaving the city and thus leaving me to my own devices, so I figured I would make the trip out there. Also, I've kinda had a crush on him for about a year now, so I was hoping he'd have a little too much to drink and one thing would lead to another, and, well, you know.
And Brooklyn, god darn it, was actually pretty cool. Maybe it's because it's fall and I am happy, and I live in the Upper East Side so there are sections of Palestine I'd rather live in for some cool nightlife or people. But still, I was very pleasantly surprised.
Sometimes at bars, when I'm feeling like things are stagnating with my drunkenness and I want to up the ante, I'll drink a vodka on the rocks. I try not to do this too often, because it turns me into a rambling shell of a human being who will pay upwards of $2000 for sexual intercourse.
But I had quite an epiphany on Saturday, and I'm gonna break it down real nice for y'all:
Bud Draft: $4
Amstel Light, Guinness, Vodka Tonic: $5 (each)
Ketel One on the rocks, which contains the same amount of vodka as 2 or 2.5 vodka tonics: $6
As a man of reason, I realized then and there that it was my duty to start drinking vodka on the rocks at every bar I go to for the rest of my life. It's just a sound financial decision.
The problem is that I only drink at one speed, regardless of what I'm drinking. By my estimation, I probably have 2.5 to 4 drinks an hour (the official results will be published in the New England Journal of Medicine sometime in the fall of '05). I don't realize that having 4 vodka rocks compared to having 4 Bud Lights will affect me differently. This is because when I'm drinking, I'm thinking of other things, like, "Good lord - look at the rack on that chick!" and "I am going to eat so much fucking lunchmeat when I get home."
So surprisingly, the rest of the night is a bit of a blur. But I know that I had a good time, and I know it ended at a Ray's Pizza with a slice of plain and a slice of pepperoni. Also, my roommate Ben and I joined forces for an astounding $16 Taco Bell order. I mean, wow.
So it was a very up-and-down weekend. What lessons did I learn?
1) I hate my friends, and my friends hate me.
2) I'm going to drink a lot more vodka rocks when I go out.
3) Brooklyn really isn't that scary.
4) I will miss Kyle.
5) I love lunchmeat.