My Sex & My Drugs & My Rock & Roll Are My Own Fuckin' Business
Yesterdaaaay, this one tiiiiime, Liz told us about a friend of hers who said she was planning on flying out to visit her in New York. Had she not been full of shit, she'd be flying into town today sometime, according to her admission. Liz was sooooo upseeeeet.
So, apparently I can cook. And apparently I can cook well. Either that, or those who ate my spaghetti last night were Just Trying To Be Nice when they were heaping praise upon me. In fact, it seems like every time I make a meal for the household, I'm bombarded with compliments; I really don't know how to handle this with style and grace. What's my secret? Take a bunch of shit and lump it together. Boil the noodles, take a jar of plain sauce, cut up a lil' onion, clove of garlic, small jar of olives, throw some spicy in the mix, bring to a simmer. Lump it all together. I'm thinking of making some Baked Ziti tonight or tomorrow. Yes, I underSTAND there are up to three different kinds of cheese in this meal. I'm making it anyway and, dammit, I'm gonna eat some!
We went to a bar last night, four of us did; me and Liz and Donald and Emily, but I have no idea what the place was called. The Black ... Man's Cock. No, but it was The Black Something. We WENT there because Liz said they had $1.00 drink specials from 10pm to midnight (well drinks, etc.). I wasn't gonna go, because I was still at home in my pajama bottoms with everyone else at 10:30 in the P.M., but they talked me into it. Bottom line: the only reason NOT to go - in my estimation - would've been because I wanted to get a good night's sleep so I could feel refreshed at work the next day. Ergo, I went, because I hate this God-damned job and I wouldn't feel right about myself if I chose Job Performance over Funtimes Performance.
The Black Something had plenty of homosexuals there. The Black Something also had NO $1.00 drink specials. They had $6.00 drink regulars. The Black Something had a DJ. The Black Something ... had one functioning toilet.
I'd like to think I wasn't That Guy (though, ironically, I WAS wearing my "That Guy" T-shirt, because I made a conscious effort to NOT get all gussied up for this bar as I transferred my legs from pajama bottoms to jeans). You know, That Guy who goes to a prominently homosexual place of late night enjoyment and looks all awkward and uncomfortable because he's surrounded by homosexuals. In truth, I don't feel awkward or uncomfortable around homosexuals at ALL. Just bars in general when there are $6.00 drink regulars, DJs, and one functioning toilet.
I had AH screwdriver; it was in a glass smaller than the regular Magic Bullet cup. I've tasted more vodka in a short stack of pancakes than I did in that so-called alcoholic beverage. The four of us sat around for a bit, surveying the lay of the land, playing with the balloons they had everywhere. But, the girls were there for dancing. I reluctantly trudged along.
The first DJ was okay; I managed to break a sweat. But, when you teabag a thimble full of orange juice and call it a screwdriver, you're not getting Steven A. Taylor at his most Twinkle-Toed. There were no booty dances; there was very little life whatsoever out of these 30-Long legs. Then, when they switched DJs and she started playing technoed-out versions of AC/DC and Bon Jovi - crippling the originals, which I COULD'VE gotten behind - I had to take a step to the side of the dancefloor and bow out, never really to return. Multiple times Emily and Liz tried to coax me back out there, but then the DJ threw Joan Jett on and it was all over.
I went outside for a freezing-cold breather - mostly because I got tired of the crappy music and the homosexuals repeatedly spilling their drinks on me while twirling on the dance floor (I felt like I was at fucking Sea World in there) - and soon after the others followed. It was nearly 1:30am and they wanted to go home anyway. Thanks to our impeccable luck, the L-Train stopped running about 8 stations west of where we needed to go; which meant we had to get on a shuttle bus that makes the stops in lieu. We didn't get home until nearly 2:30am; it was a painful go getting up at 6:45 this morning.
Highlights? Well, in spite of the overwhelming majority, there WERE heterosexual women in attendance. Of course, this is New York City, so REALLY all you can do is assume there were women. One such case of gender ambiguity happened to have an afro the size of - I shit you not - one of those medicine balls they used to have in gym classes. I'm almost positive it was a wig, but regardless it was pretty impressive. Also, I think I saw the shortest non-midget in existence. From the couch, I tried to size her up by comparing her to my size 11 shoes; she appeared to be about 4'5 to 4'8 max. Electric Six WAS played one time while I was there, but alas it wasn't "Gay Bar". I still don't know why that song hasn't shot up to number 1 on the singles charts, but I would've liked to have seen the reaction from those of the homosexual community. And, of course, who could forget the fact that I led us onto the wrong subway train, causing us to take a taxi for a $5.00 fare.
Today's gonna hurt; I'm foregoing the green tea in favor of much stronger coffee-related substance.
So, apparently I can cook. And apparently I can cook well. Either that, or those who ate my spaghetti last night were Just Trying To Be Nice when they were heaping praise upon me. In fact, it seems like every time I make a meal for the household, I'm bombarded with compliments; I really don't know how to handle this with style and grace. What's my secret? Take a bunch of shit and lump it together. Boil the noodles, take a jar of plain sauce, cut up a lil' onion, clove of garlic, small jar of olives, throw some spicy in the mix, bring to a simmer. Lump it all together. I'm thinking of making some Baked Ziti tonight or tomorrow. Yes, I underSTAND there are up to three different kinds of cheese in this meal. I'm making it anyway and, dammit, I'm gonna eat some!
We went to a bar last night, four of us did; me and Liz and Donald and Emily, but I have no idea what the place was called. The Black ... Man's Cock. No, but it was The Black Something. We WENT there because Liz said they had $1.00 drink specials from 10pm to midnight (well drinks, etc.). I wasn't gonna go, because I was still at home in my pajama bottoms with everyone else at 10:30 in the P.M., but they talked me into it. Bottom line: the only reason NOT to go - in my estimation - would've been because I wanted to get a good night's sleep so I could feel refreshed at work the next day. Ergo, I went, because I hate this God-damned job and I wouldn't feel right about myself if I chose Job Performance over Funtimes Performance.
The Black Something had plenty of homosexuals there. The Black Something also had NO $1.00 drink specials. They had $6.00 drink regulars. The Black Something had a DJ. The Black Something ... had one functioning toilet.
I'd like to think I wasn't That Guy (though, ironically, I WAS wearing my "That Guy" T-shirt, because I made a conscious effort to NOT get all gussied up for this bar as I transferred my legs from pajama bottoms to jeans). You know, That Guy who goes to a prominently homosexual place of late night enjoyment and looks all awkward and uncomfortable because he's surrounded by homosexuals. In truth, I don't feel awkward or uncomfortable around homosexuals at ALL. Just bars in general when there are $6.00 drink regulars, DJs, and one functioning toilet.
I had AH screwdriver; it was in a glass smaller than the regular Magic Bullet cup. I've tasted more vodka in a short stack of pancakes than I did in that so-called alcoholic beverage. The four of us sat around for a bit, surveying the lay of the land, playing with the balloons they had everywhere. But, the girls were there for dancing. I reluctantly trudged along.
The first DJ was okay; I managed to break a sweat. But, when you teabag a thimble full of orange juice and call it a screwdriver, you're not getting Steven A. Taylor at his most Twinkle-Toed. There were no booty dances; there was very little life whatsoever out of these 30-Long legs. Then, when they switched DJs and she started playing technoed-out versions of AC/DC and Bon Jovi - crippling the originals, which I COULD'VE gotten behind - I had to take a step to the side of the dancefloor and bow out, never really to return. Multiple times Emily and Liz tried to coax me back out there, but then the DJ threw Joan Jett on and it was all over.
I went outside for a freezing-cold breather - mostly because I got tired of the crappy music and the homosexuals repeatedly spilling their drinks on me while twirling on the dance floor (I felt like I was at fucking Sea World in there) - and soon after the others followed. It was nearly 1:30am and they wanted to go home anyway. Thanks to our impeccable luck, the L-Train stopped running about 8 stations west of where we needed to go; which meant we had to get on a shuttle bus that makes the stops in lieu. We didn't get home until nearly 2:30am; it was a painful go getting up at 6:45 this morning.
Highlights? Well, in spite of the overwhelming majority, there WERE heterosexual women in attendance. Of course, this is New York City, so REALLY all you can do is assume there were women. One such case of gender ambiguity happened to have an afro the size of - I shit you not - one of those medicine balls they used to have in gym classes. I'm almost positive it was a wig, but regardless it was pretty impressive. Also, I think I saw the shortest non-midget in existence. From the couch, I tried to size her up by comparing her to my size 11 shoes; she appeared to be about 4'5 to 4'8 max. Electric Six WAS played one time while I was there, but alas it wasn't "Gay Bar". I still don't know why that song hasn't shot up to number 1 on the singles charts, but I would've liked to have seen the reaction from those of the homosexual community. And, of course, who could forget the fact that I led us onto the wrong subway train, causing us to take a taxi for a $5.00 fare.
Today's gonna hurt; I'm foregoing the green tea in favor of much stronger coffee-related substance.