When you're a dumbass, life is never dull ...
Saturday, 2:30 a.m. I'm over at my friend Mr. Met's apartment, watching The State on DVD while he burns me some CDs. A friend of his comes over with a sixpack of Brazilian beer she purchased at a drugstore. She's tipsy and tired after going on a date. She starts to play cards with us, but falls asleep on the couch after making macaroni and cheese. My friend and I drink all her beer. Also, I have some vanilla pudding (about 60 cents worth) and hum "Porcupine Racetrack" to myself.
Saturday, 7:37 a.m.We're standing in a cold drizzle as the sky grows a lighter shade of gray. My roommate, Emmelle, has arranged for work purposes to have a group of her friends stand around in the background of a TV segment on the South Beach diet. And so we're milling about and trying not to think of how tired we are while standing near a giant turquoise truck. The truck is a rolling billboard for the South Beach Diet. It has a clear box on the chassis containing a bamboo bar, some stools, a sandy floor, several beach balls and two models in shiny blue swimsuits. I offer to jump into the truck and drive off while the morning show anchors are in the back, in exchange for all $50 Amex gift cards we're getting for showing up. It would be like the dumbest "Grand Theft Auto" trick. There are no takers. I wind up managing not to get on camera, and go home with my pockets full of South Beach Diet bars (peanut butter flavor). I now have breakfast for the next two weeks, plus $50 which can be exchanged for goods and/or services. Not bad for two hours' work.
Sunday, 2:15 a.m. CrimeNotes, several of his friends and I arrive at a West Village hole in the wall we've been seeking for close to 45 minutes. I've steered everyone wrong, despite being the only sober one in the group. (Stupid West Village; I used to know my way around you so much better). Roughly 45 minutes later, everone is sated from beer and burgers, and it's time to go home. Even CrimeNotes, who dragged me out there in the first place less than two hours earlier is ready to call it a night. Yes, we know: Baby's tired.
Sunday, 11:45 p.m. We're standing outside a bar on first avenue in the East Village. It's me, Mr. Met, voidoid and his friend from college. We were drinking and playing Euchre for the past couple of hours, but now we're attempting to kick Oreo cookies across First Avenue. It's the only way to take the sting out of a loss.
I don't have much success with the cookie booting. My most earnest attempt goes sailing off the side of my foot at about a 70-degree angle, landing hilariously close to me. I blame the beer, because I wasn't this drunk after the Ohio State game, when I could clear Second Avenue on the fly. Although "less drunk" is a ludicrous understatement at this point. I think at least 98 percent of Ireland is less sloshed than I am. We're talking somewhere between Paula Abdul live on Seattle TV and Orson Welles shooting a Paul Masson commercial drunk at this point.
Monday, sometime around 4 a.m. Naturally, in our current state, the only thing to do is go play some video-game football. Voidoid and friend beg off. So Mr. Met and I go to my place and wind up playing for Floyd of Rosedale. He's almost as drunk as I was, but not too drunk to wait for me to call HB Direct (never a long wait). He switches his controller over from Iowa to Minnesota and takes the snap directly backward, all the way out the back of the end zone to give himself a free safety. I was laughing too hard to breathe properly, let alone summon any indignation at this point. I respond by driving the field on his ass, scoring, and converting the two for a 29-26 lead late in the game. His field goal attempt as time expires went wide right by the slimmest of margins. Instant karma, fucker.
Monday 3:30 p.m. I wake up.
Monday, 6 p.m. I'm about to settle in for an early, hangover-curing dinner when I realize my remote control is not where I left it. It's not under the coffee table. Or the entertainment center. Or either couch. Or in my room. I even look in the refrigerator. Remembering how quickly Mr. Met skedaddled the previous night, I text him. He calls back to report that he checked his coat and indeed does have my remote. It's just as I suspected. When you lead the life of a dumbass, there are some things you just know.