So here’s how not to take the night easy.
The first step is to have a gathering where you don’t actually know who’s going. You have it in a restaurant where you don’t actually like the food. And you have a crabby day at work so you don’t even wanna go.
Next, you pound your liver into submission for 6 hours, barely making the last train home.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Around 3 yesterday, I was debating the merits of even going out. People were dropping like flies, I was in a bad mood, and I don’t like Mexican food. Or rather, Mexican food doesn’t like me. Couple that with a lack of fundage, and the knowledge I’m returning to my halcyon karaoke days tonite, and yours truly was in no mood to go out.
Sadly, I had a semi-personal stake in the event. Observe the following conversation:
Co-worker: So you going tonite?
Me: Sigh. I dunno.
Co-worker: Who’s this for anyway?
Me: Sigh. Me.
See, it was a super-belated birthday gathering for myself and my friend Kim. So, I sorta kinda had to go. Knowing well that dinner may be out, I stuffed two Lean Pockets down my throat and soldiered on.
Turns out there were a few things on the menu I could eat that wouldn’t go through my digestive system like the Acela, so I had a chicken caeser salad with a few pints of my homeboy Sam Adams’ brew. Six of us to start, joined by Kim and her friend about an hour later. So I figure oh, nice dinner, about 2 and a half hours, I’m gonna call it a night.
So why I then said, “Who’s up for more?” is anyone’s guess. Pretty sure Lucifer himself was the Patrick Swayze to my Whoopi Goldberg there for a minute. (It would explain the pottery spree.) So five of the eight of us move to my favorite watering hole for more alcoholic sustenance.
What’s cooler than being cool? Ice cold. Indeed. But having your booty next to a fire while sippin’ on Bass Ale is pretty darn cool as well. Well, warm, not cool, but you get the gist. We were discussing the relative merits of such fine programming as “Real Sex” and “The Fabulous Life Of…” Anybody seen this show? With the faux-Robin Leach droning on about the incredibly ridiculous expenses of pretty people? “The toilet paper Justin Timberlake uses to wipe his ass costs over $4,000 A ROLL!” So forth and so on. (You can get an alternative rundown, with pictures, here. And sadly, I can't deny the bit about "A Walk to Remember".)
So, OK, now it’s 10:30 pm, I’ve six drinks in, it’s time to call it a night, right? Wrong. The devil on my shoulder gets even more persuasive when my co-worker decided that we need to go to a trifecta of bars for the evening, given that a Mexican restaurant and an Irish pub simply weren’t enough. So we hit a relative dive bar and I’d tell you what we talked about, but I think most of it consisted of those “revelations” you think you have when you’re drunk, where you think you’ve solved some age-old question in philosophy, and really, all you’ve done is just have an idea to put expiration dates on $20 bills in order to stimulate the economy. Which is just silly.
So instead of resting my weary bones for a night of merriment tonite, I roll into work on a wing and a prayer (and, well, the T) all the while muttering, “Coffee…oh, sweet caffeine…I’m coming, O Nectar of Life…” and scaring the bejesus out of my fellow commuters, which really, is always a bonus. Who knows what tonite will bring? If anyone has any suggestions for my second karaoke performance, I’m all ears.
No guarantee the audience tonite will be all ears when I perform it, though.
Posted by Ryan McGee at December 10, 2003 10:07 AM