December 2nd, 2007


Redemption Songs

I'm drunk right now. I had one beer during the first half of the Seahawks/Philly game because I was so hungover from last night, then I had five or six in the sex-ond half because I was feeling better (and the Seahawks were winning ... I hate the fuckin' Eagles, man). Now, I'm finishing a bottle of wine I started last night.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself

I've given up on producing a sober version of last night, so I'm gonna try to do this thing intoxicated.

At 5:00 I got a new tattoo. I went to Fun City Tattoo over on 1st Ave. and St. Mark's Avenue in the lower east side, showed them a picture I cut out of an arts magazine of a painting that I really liked and asked if they could reproduce the figure in the painting on my left arm. They said they could and 20 minutes later I was in the chair gettin' 'er dun. I hate myself right now for using that slang.

So, here's the thing. My tattoo is from a painting I found in a magazine, but I don't know who it's by or what it's called. I just really fucking like it and I think my tattoo is awesome, so lay off. Anyway, there was a guy in the tattoo parlor who recognized the painting and said it's from a series of paintings that was featured in some NYC exhibit in some NYC art gallery, but he couldn't remember the gallery or the name of the artist or anything else that was remotely helpful to my cause.

But, now I'm officially going insane. I tried a bunch of different tactics to find the painting online using Google. I failed. Now, I'm thinking I have to take the picture to a bunch of different galleries around NYC this week to see if anybody knows who's responsible for my tattoo.

In the meantime, I'm calling my tattoo Rondell, and he's fucking great. I'm taking care of him just like I should. I heart tattoos.

Secondly, after I got home from getting the tattoo last night - and polishing off a bottle of Riesling to make my arm not hurt so much - I went to a party. It wasn't so much a Halloween party like I was told, but rather a regular fucking party and I wore my white T-shirt for nothing. Anyway, I brought a bottle of wine with me (my second of the night, if you don't count the quarter bottle I drank after the Rielsing before I left) and ended up drinking it all. It was a cool party. Lots of nerds. Someone named Brian brought Guitar Hero over and there was a solid round of that (including "Free Bird" which is apparently the toughest song on the second version of the game) ... meanwhile, I was telling everyone about the new South Park episode featuring Guitar Hero that was fucking hilarious but not as hilarious as the World of Warcraft episode.

So, Jenny and Emily and The Donald left early to go to some all-night Museum opening and I stayed because I had to see Free Bird. I ended up befriending an uber-nerd named Mark (who said the difference between Geeks and Nerds is that Geeks get things done ... hence why he's Uber Nerd) and he had a hot black girlfriend, which is awesome and gives me hope. And I smoked a cigarette with Brian and Stephen (which I would later regret now that I'm sober) and we talked the entire time about how people call us Steve and/or Steven.

You may not realize this, but Stevens/Stephens across the land ALWAYS have an opinion about what people prefer to call them. Some Stevens take their name seriously, some of us (like me) don't care just so long as you don't call me Stevie.

By the way, just so everyone knows, here's what I can handle. My friends can call my Steve or Steven, but my family HAS to call me Steven because they've been doing that all my life and that's what I'm used to. However, I fully expect any woman I marry (if it ever happens) to call me Steven. I just know that the person I end up with will call me Steven like the rest of my family; it feels right.

OK, so I left the party sometime after midnight and tried to make my way back home. I ended up getting LOST like you would not believe. Somewhere I ended up catching a train, but not before I hailed multiple cabs only to be so drunk I couldn't remember my address and had to waive them away saying, "Get the fuck outta here."

Again, I FORGOT my own address because I was so drunk!

I didn't want anyone to forget that. Somehow I made it home. Somehow I didn't piss n' shit my bed. Somehow I woke up at 12:30 and got my ass to the bar for the game at the end of the 1st quarter. Somehow I'm alive. Somehow the Seahawks won. Somehow I'm drunk now.

Dees songs of Freedom