I'd like nothing better than to enrich your Monday with dozens of fabulous details from Saturday night's drunken, snow-covered adventure. Problem is, I don't remember too much. The personal alcohol disaster I predicted for myself hit even more quickly than I thought it would. I guess it was a bad idea, little hundred-pound me trying to match drinks with a bunch of big burly mens. I'm still having a little trouble forming coherent thoughts, but I'll do my best to re-create the magic for you...
Stop One: Pieces
Charles and I trudged bravely through the freezing wind and snow, bitching all the way. We were excited to see our pre-established blogger friends and scope out some new ones as we stumbled into Pieces. Hugs were exchanged, introductions made, drinks ordered and rapidly consumed, ice was broken, and the evening's fashion choices were discussed. It immediately became clear that I was to be The Lone Vagina on this trek, a role I took on with all the honor and solemnity it was due. Or something.
Pieces is a lot like Little Orphan Annie...it's got everything working against it...it's poor, and dirty, and kinda lonely...and it seems like it oughta just be sad and pathetic. But somehow, in spite of it all, it maintains a bright & happy spirit that one just can't help but admire.
Or perhaps the scotch on the rocks just hit me even more quickly than I thought.
Stop Two: Stonewall
Or...not. Newsflash, Stonewall guys: I don't care how historically relevant your bar is. When a group of thirty or so potential patrons, a damned good-lookin' buncha 'mos at that, show up at your joint IN THE MIDDLE OF A FUCKING BLIZZARD, you prolly oughta think about waiving your ridiculous ten-dollar cover charge and just letting 'em in. Otherwise, they might just take their business elsewhere. Der.
Stop Three: The Duplex
The Duplex holds a special place in my blackened stump of a heart, as the bar where I spent my first NYC Pride, getting wasted on canned Coronas. Thus, I was not unhappy when our detour from Stonewall led us past the scary warbling of the Duplex's downstairs piano bar to their tiny upstairs lounge. The vastness of our numbers had the existing patrons and beleaguered bartenders looking around in puzzlement...the place went from nearly empty to squeezey-packed in about 45 seconds. We were like beer terrorists, or something. We drank quickly, we chatted a bit, my buzz started to get serious, and then it was time to go.
Stop Four: The Monster
This place was a new one on me. We paid some kind of cover, but it seemed reasonable, considering that there's actually room to move in there. Shortly after we began swilling, I was pulled aside by the utterly adorable and infinitely patient Mike P. of Blather and Bosh, who was kind/brave enough to interview me for his podcast. I don't remember the conversation too clearly. I recall being helped along by my handlers, Charles and Farmboy T. Listening to it today, I sound like an arrogant retard. So it was pretty spot-on. Mike wins the prestigious Favorite New Person I Met on the Blarg Hop Award, and not just because he laughed at my stupid jokes. And then, alas, we had to move on.
Stop Five: Boots & Saddles
I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of this bar or what took place there. Maybe it was so horrible that I blocked it out. I know I drank there, because that's the only way to explain my state of complete shithammeredness. Um...
Stop Six: Ty's
Ditto Boots & Saddles. No fucking idea, at all. Probably drank there too. Anybody? Anybody? Uh...
But hey, the blizzard conditions outside were bugging me far, far less by this time, so that's something.
Stop Seven: The Hangar
Ah, the Hangar. Hard to forget, no matter how I may try. The anxiety over the possibility that my ex-boyfriend might still be stripping there must have sucked me, albeit temporarily, out of my blackout. Mercifully, it was some other...um... nice young man shaking his wares on the narrow stage. I remember a pair of yellow briefs and a pool table. The tunnel vision was extreme. I think the go-go boy's beefy presence might have kept us there a tad longer than we stayed at the other bars, but who knows.
Stop Eight: Chi Chiz
I remember exactly one thing about this bar, and even that is hazy...that would be Pete, the purportedly straight Jersey boy/bartender who gave me his phone number. Boy, I bet that was a real interesting conversation, there. Don't recall it, of course, but I can imagine...
Me: I have a vashina, gah...Blarg...whut?
Him: I like vashinas!
Me: Urg, nuh-uh!
Him: Call me!
Yesterday, Charles mentioned the extensive collection of African masks adorning Chi Chiz walls. I don't remember that either. Whoops?
Well, there wasn't much of a next. Those pussies at The Dugout closed their doors early on account of the massive winter storm. Pssssh...whatevah. (Don't listen to me. I've never even been in there. They might not be pussies. I'm just belligerent.)
Anyway, I guess we went back to the Monster for awhile. Evidently there was some dancing. I certainly hope that I took no part in that, though I can't be sure.
The next thing I remember is being back out in the snow with Charles, who valiantly assisted me in my desperate search for a cab driver dumb or greedy enough to drive my piss-drunk ass back to Brooklyn. This took some time, as you can imagine. Finally a gypsy cab scooped me up, and we started the long trek back to the 'hood. I don't think I ralphed in that nice man's car. I sure hope not.
That's all I got. Yesterday was spent bleeding out the eyes and craving anything and everything Pizza Hut has to offer. Today I'm a little better, but still not all the way back. I'd say that's an indicator of this event's overwhelming success. The photographic evidence I've seen thus far supports that contention as well.
To my blogger friends: I honestly adore every single damned one of you. We need to hang out more often, for reals.
To my new blogger friends, and their friends: Y'all are pretty awesome. If I offended you in any way...well, get used to it, bitches. There's plenty more where that came from.
To Joe: My liver might not agree, but the rest of me appreciates your technique as an instigator of madness and mayhem. Nicely done.