Rockin' out, fire-escape style

It was late and I was more sober and serious than the ideal, not having had a drink until after 11 p.m. and just having seen the Baghdad bureau chief off to the airport for his latest work trip through failed and failing states. Landing at a crowded party in a tiny apartment somewhere around East 12th, an open jar of applesauce immediately was thrust in my face. I calmly bribed a hostile drunk chick to let me cut in line for the bathroom.

It was a few hours later. The party had wound down. Out on the precarious fire escape, smoking cigarettes, we could see into the apartment across the street, where a guy with a guitar leaned out the window. One of the remaining guests yelled to the guitarist, issuing song requests for five minutes or so until he turned around and waved. This was seen as encouragement, so the song requests from the fire escape gained momentum. Across the street, two guys stepped out to a third-floor fire escape with their guitars and started playing.

A woman and her boyfriend walked past on the sidewalk below. She photographed the impromptu performance. They played "Beast of Burden" and "Sweet Virginia," the Troggs, Matthew Sweet, some later Beatles, a few songs that I didn't recognize. The woman on the street kept photographing. We applauded politely at the end of each song, trying not to make too much outdoor noise at 2:30 a.m. and therein wake the host's neighbors, which probably was a moot consideration at that late hour with a small acoustic show underway.

It ended after six or seven songs -- three guys with guitars, four of us on the opposite fire escape. Someone from our team yelled across and said that we'd buy them beer. It was time to go home anyway, so we left, picking up beer at the bodega a couple doors away.

It was decided that beer alone was insufficient reward. I pulled down a can of soup and a can of deviled ham. Flop came over with a bottle of Murphy's Oil. "They'll want to clean their floors," he said.

"Lucky Charms, too!" I hissed.

"What about Fruit Loops?"

"No. Lucky Charms."

Four of us arrived at the apartment of the guitar-playing strangers with two six-packs of beer, a bottle of Murphy's Oil and non-perishables. In all, they received $30 in supplies in exchange for a seven-song performance.

Flop later expressed disappointment that we weren't all invited to stay and hang out, but by that point it was past 3 a.m. and they had strangers in their apartment distributing deviled ham, beer and floor cleaner. We could've pulled out the Book of Mormon and they would've been unfazed. Post-3 a.m., my appetite for live jams was filled. It was time to move on. It was 2 1/2 hours until daylight and there was breakfast to order.

Even better than the real thing

As I stood in the Venetian Hotel's St. Mark's Square, it occurred to me that whenever I made it to the real one, I was in for some disquiet. Because after my initial gawp, I'm going to subconsciously and involuntarily compare the two. I like the real one's chances, if only because the Doges weren't notoriously anti-union Gingrich lickers. But the fact of the comparison will cause me some disquiet nevertheless.

The rest of Vegas presented no such problem. Paris was a bit of a disappointment, but I've got a massive, massive city crush on that town; I watch Amelie as much for the backdrop as anything else. At New York New York, I tried to work out which part of the hotel and casino complex should correspond to where I live. (Note: NOT the Gaming on the Green High Limit Gaming and Slots Room, to be sure).

The incident at the Venetian made me realize that I have to avoid ersatz great cities of the world until I've actually experienced the real thing. Which is too bad, because next time I'm in Hong Kong, I've really got to make a border run to Shenzhen so I can see this (via wikipedia):

The Window of the World (Chinese: 世界之窗 (alternatively 小人国); Pinyin: Shìjiè zhī Chuāng) is a theme park located in the western part of the city of Shenzhen in the People's Republic of China. It has about 130 reproductions of some of the most famous tourist attractions in the world squeezed into 480,000 square metres. The 108 meter (354 ft) tall Eiffel Tower dominates the skyline and the sight of the Pyramids and the Taj Mahal all in proximity to each other are all part of the slightly kitsch appeal of this theme park.

Also, there's this:

In the evening, one can enjoy "Fervorous Paris Nights" at "Caesar's Palace". Spectacles include young bikini-clad women prancing on stage to the music of Tom Jones' "Sex Bomb".

I think it's safe to say that Shenzhen sounds like our kind of town. I imagine on Saturday nights, the sidewalks are choked with slices of cake dangling from rooftops. I think I'll develop an unrequited city crush on it until I get to experience the fervor myself.

Let me explode

By third grade I was a veteran of illegal fireworks. It was a benefit of being a little kid with limitless access to firecrackers and lakes.

My grandparents spent their winters in Florida. On the drive back they spent hundreds of dollars at fireworks marts along the freeway. We had a cabinet at the family cottage dedicated to fireworks and hard liquor. The closet housed sacks and boxes of Black Cat firecrackers, standard bottlerockets, Roman candles, and jumbo missiles that exploded above the lake in flares.

I started thinking of this because of a post on the excellent new New York Times book blog. To my shock, the Times is trying to expand its feature pieces beyond the shallow-whore demographic to incorporate pro-boom crackers like myself.

My two cousins are much older than me. The oldest was late in high school when I was in kindergarten. He used to hold a firecracker, light it, and time his throw so that it exploded when it hit the surface of the lake. (He once climbed a stepladder that he positioned on a wooden plank while being pulled by a boat at about 30 miles an hour. Now he has five sons. There probably will be feats to report over the next 10 years.)

The allure of this to a six-year old: immense. When it came to fireworks, I wasn't risk-averse. My parents told me that I couldn't light illegal fireworks before I was 10, but they quickly relented, so I probably was seven or eight when I was allowed to entertain myself at the cottage with a pack of Black Cats.

We took a coffee can lakeside. Burrow the firecracker in the mud with the wick sticking out, press the coffee can over it, and when the explosion comes, the can shoots into the air.

My cousin and uncle drilled a firecracker-sized hole in a metal pipe and cut a wood plug to fit the end. Light the firecracker, and it worked like a cannon. The wood plug shot across the lakefront.

One July 4th we found a dead fish washed up to shore. We put a firecracker in its mouth, lit, and ran. The dead fish exploded, covering us in rotten fish guts. I remember my girl-cousin screaming when she found a fish-eye stuck to her T-shirt.

Bottlerockets don't work for shit when shot from a bottle. We had a special launchpad -- two boards connected at a right angle, forming a chute and allowing for perfect aim -- so perfect that I could target boats with accuracy. This was the only time I got in trouble because of fireworks: shooting bottlerockets at boaters.

In retrospect, it's a little surprising to remember, the crucial role that fireworks played in my childhood. They were my fascination, my rite of passage from little kid to big kid. My younger sister must have been four or five when she burned her finger on a sparkler. My parents left the cottage to drive her to a nearby emergency room, which must have been at least twenty minutes away. Grandma CrimeNotes monitored me while I ran ripshit around older cousins and my aunt and uncle, drunk on Faygo and Mountain Dew, setting off bottlerockets and Roman candles and screaming.

I remember thinking how ridiculous it was that my sister managed to burn herself on a fucking sparkler and actually cry about it. Sparklers were lameness. If she'd lost fingers in a firecracker mishap, then I might have felt sympathy. My heart had no room for a sparkler casualty.

We all grow and evolve, of course. In high school I moved on to bigger homemade projects. My friend Jack and I were partial to bottle bombs. One summer afternoon we mixed a bunch of chemicals in a fishtank and unleashed all kinds of noxious fumes in my bedroom -- enough that I gagged and coughed and my eyes watered. Bottle bombs sound like shotgun blasts, and at night, were a surefire way to scare neighbors and belligerent fast food employees.

Combustibles generally were a source of great joy. There was a night in sophomore year of high school when I had 15 or 20 of the troops at my parents' house for a bonfire. We decided to see what happened when you throw a can of spraypaint into a fire. To my delight, what happens is a 10-foot mushroom cloud and an impact that knocks down everyone within 15 feet of the fire. Like having their nine-year-old shoot bottlerockets at pleasure boaters, this was too much even for my parents, and is still cited as evidence of my bad judgment.

All I can say is look ma, no burn scars!

I've been in New York more than five years now. Every morning I wake up and thank Allah for that.

Except on days like today, when it's above 80 degrees. Those days, I just want to be on a lake, drinking a bottle of Oberon with a Faygo chaser, blowing up dead fish and shooting bottlerockets at boats.

Good night, fuckers

"I'll probably go to bed at around 4 a.m.," I told a friend mid-afternoon.

"Really?" he said.

"Maybe like 3 a.m.," I said, believing it.

Suggestion: go to YouTube. Search for "paper bag" and "balls." Or maybe "paper bag" and "testes." I'm not sure. I certainly did a kick-ass lip-synch to "Stevie Nix" at around 4:30 a.m. It was after the baby bok-choi was hurled at a sleeveless pedestrian, but well before breakfast.

Good night, fuckers. Good night.

Cake night in America

Note: I'm bumping this post. It was published in the middle of Memorial Day weekend, but it's just too proper to languish mid-page. Read and enjoy.

Tonight we celebrated the 28th birthday of our friend Vanessa.

HMQ2K5 baked a cake. It was excellent, but we still had leftovers.

What to do?

Lower pieces of cake five stories and give them to strangers!

First, we arranged a cake-delivery system.


A minion then lowered the cake by hand.

The cake descended lower ...



... and lower ...


... and lower still.


Eventually, there was a cake mobile on Park Avenue.



This nice lady and her significant other stopped by. After being reassured that the cake didn't have any strange substances, and that we were giving away cake in honor of Vanessa's birthday, she gratefully took the slice.


We celebrated with balloons.

Please allow me to introduce myself.

"Welcome to my social function. Thanks for coming. Let's French."

"Welcome to my social function. Thanks for coming. Let's French."

"Nice to meet you! I'm Clarksville's leading pornographer and very controversial in my own right. Quick, penetrate my ear, before Chris Batty throws a fucking stapler at me."

"Oh hi. I'm an itinerant astronaut from Missouri. Tomorrow is my fiftieth birthday, but I just found these really sweet alien cocoons in the pool. They're having a positive effect. We should totally go swimming later."

"The pleasure is all mine. Don't you love the Big Ten? Pardon me while I stick straws in my eyes and fall down."

"Good to see you again. I've been stalking you near your workplace, LOLzy."

"Hmmm, yes. Please pose for a photo. My britches, they're odorless, I swear."

"Cheers dude. I see through your bullshit."

Hootness malaria dancey-dance!

"On this special day, we renew our commitment to lead the world toward an urgent goal, and that is to turn the tide against malaria in Africa, and around the globe," the president said. Associated Press.

How true. Malaria kills more than a million people a year. It's the leading cause of death among children in Africa--

Oh, fuck it.

Malaria Awareness Day is my best day for dancing!

"In no time, it was Bush who was enthusiastically choreographing the moves. Flashing a big grin, Bush pounded on the drums to set the rhythm and led the women and men of the group in a little dance." Associated Press.

Dancey dance!


Oh my danceness!



Hoot! Hoot! Dancing hootness George W. Bush dancey dance! Hoot!



ROTFLMAO OMG hootness you guys! OMG HOOT!!!!!!!??!!

hahahahahahahaaaa! Clappy clappy hoot!

Yes, someone really does love you, Boris Yeltsin. You know what they say: Peanut butter jelly with a baseball bat.

Hootness Yeltsin dancey-dance!

*All photos found on Shakesville.
** If I didn't already hate the guy so much, these photos would make me wish he was my best friend.

In praise of viral marketing

I'm sufficiently excited for Grindhouse that I might break my six-month embargo against going to the movies.

The movie happens to sport a great website, one of the features of which allows you to design fake movie posters using your own snapshots. Here's one of my own creations, with faces smudged out to protect the innocent.

An evening with CrimeNotes and Flop

Discussion agenda includes:

• Hypothetical treatise titled "The Human Butt."
• Medical cocaine.
• Whether a surgeon should invite a retarded ten-year-old son to observe in the operating room.
• Coffee enemas.
• Prank text messages.
• The phrase, "Me so gay."
• Whether intestines have the most neurons in the human body outside of the brain.
• Hillary vs. Obama.
• Driving in the snow.
• Crashing a snowmobile through a garage door.
  
• Query: Who is the biggest pussy?
• Query: Is Cleveland completely despicable, or just fucked up?
• Query: When is it appropriate to root for Ohio State?
• Idiocracy: is it funnier than Team America?
  
• Variations in the rules of euchre.
• Excessive Tivo use.
• Tumors.
  
• The injustice of Peri Gilpin never winning an Emmy award for her work on Frasier.
• Niles Crane.
  
• The Michigan State fight song.
• Urine.
• The bathroom habits of truck drivers.
  
• Reach-arounds.
• Ivy League hockey.
• Crustaceans and their chitin shells.
• Traffic in the Death Valley.
• Surgeons who like XBox.
• Whether Penn grads are deplorable.
• Eating clubs at Princeton.
• Harvard's overrated professional schools.
• Who went to what high school in suburban Grand Rapids, MI.
  
• Farting.
  
• Dead raccoons, muskrats, and nutrias.
• People who masturbate in the living room.
  
• Whether winters in the Midwest make a person's cheeks "rosy."
• South Georgia.
• A dictatorial field hockey coach.
  
• Instant messaging phrases.
• Wikipedia.
• The role of Jesuit priests in Japanese military history.
• Irish Catholics who hate Notre Dame.
• Sisters.
• Horrible crowds at Lower East Side bars.
• Getting trashed with parents.
• Ph.Ds who marry.
  

CrimeNotes and Flop debate the collapse of civilizations

Paraphrased from an argument last night:

Flop: Fucker, if you could get text messages you would have known where we were.
Me: No, if I could get text messages I wouldn't have read your fucking text message because I would have been annoyed that someone sent me a text message.
Flop: Great. I'm sure that if you were a Roman, you would have refused to adopt those newfangled phalanxes.
Me: Didn't the Roman's have phalanxes?
Flop: No they didn't. That's why their empire collapsed.
Me: You huge asshole. The Romans had phalanxes. That's not why their empire collapsed.
Flop: Okay, fine, pick an empire that collapsed because it refused to adapt to new technology.
Me: The Romans rotted from within.
Flop: The Hittites!
Me: Fuck you and your Hittites.
Flop: Why did the Hittites collapse?
Me: Beats the hell out of me.
Flop: I'm pretty sure it's because they failed to adapt. Okay, well, pick a fallen empire that refused to adapt to technology, and that's you.
Me: Okay, the dinosaurs.
Flop: (sarcastic) Oh yes, the dinosaurs. Of course, the dinosaurs and their mighty mighty empire. And they were victims of what kind of technological failing exactly?
Me: They refused to develop a missile-defense shield that would deflect incoming asteroids.
Flop: The kind of great missile defense that George W. Bush is developing, right?
Me: Okay, the Aborigines probably didn't adapt to technology.
Flop: You're only saying that because they're black. What's next, are you going to blame the Iroquois for not having a smallpox vaccine at the ready?
Me: No, you motherfucker. But now that you mention it, the Indians died of smallpox, right?
Flop: That's right, asshole.
Me: Okay, and according to popular legend, the English gave them blankets infected with smallpox, correct?
Flop: Yes, you douche.
Me: So the problem wasn't refusing to adapt to technology, it was that they were too greedy in wanting to adapt to all of that new blanket technology. If the Iroquois had refused to accept the new cutting-edge blankets, no smallpox. Blankets were the text messages, and text messages are the smallpox, and wanting to have all of the new technology is what doomed them. I fucking win!

Night of the Monkey

It's not always evident by his posts, but Flop is a sort of improvisational genius. He is a master of the non-sequiter, the comic prop, the malapropism and the bizarrely obscure allusion. He has no capacity for shame -- neither yours nor his own.

Flop will turn 30 over the weekend. Rather than write something myself, I undertook some original reporting. Here are a few anecdotes that reflect Flop's entertainment capacity, running from the mid-90s through the present.

Thanks to all who contributed.

1. As a female friend and I wrapped up another evening of beer pong at a local bar, Flop and the then-boyfriend of said female began slow dancing to Bad Company's "Feel Like Making Love." --NT
2. When one of our friends was leaving for her freshman year of college, we gathered at her house for goodbyes. In order to lighten the mood, Flop started throwing his keys in the air, hoping those who were sad would be distracted by shiny flying things. It wasn't working, so there was only one thing for Flop to do ... throw harder! With a mighty heave he threw his keys up... up... up... onto the roof of the house. Or so we thought. It was only once he had climbed up onto the roof and was capering around spastically that we realized he had actually thrown the keys completely over the house into the backyard. --CT
3. Flop celebrated his 21st birthday with the usual suave and finesse. He ended the evening at a local dive bar, where he sat at a table among his peers, listing and swaying like a vessel headed for a watery grave. When it became clear that he was going to need some kind of receptacle -- and quickly -- a friend grabbed one of the empty plastic beer pitchers scattered around the table, and Flop unloaded the cargo before sinking. -ER
4. The plan was simple: Fly to NYC, hang out with Flop, rent a car, drive to the Jersey shore for a wedding, and then drive home. Being of legal car-renting age, Flop and I would both sign for the car and split driving time. All Flop had to do was renew his drivers license within the 6 month time frame that we formulated the plan. Upon arriving to New York I was informed that Flop did not have a license because he was unable to get his renewed. --TO
   
5. Stupid things Flop has made me do: Responding to misogynist bile by biting the closest available hand (unfortunately, not Flop's). Wearing tank top with "weapons of mass seduction" across the chest to soccer game at Giant's Stadium. Visiting Montreal Casino. Spying on former NY governor at a Bruce Springsteen concert. Flop's stupidity: Contributions to the endless supply of jack and ginger. Other dumb Flop things: Spilling a full pint in my lap after I'd snuck around the block to avoid my boyfriend in order to keep drinking. Throwing an umbrella at my feet in the street like a gauntlet. Hanging out in the photo booth at Lakeside Lounge (see Jack and Ginger, above). --J.C.
6. Several of us were on vacation at the beach in Hilton Head, SC., and we went off to buy provisions. The Five-and-Dime store had lots of random stuff ... and an extra-large inflatable ball. I mean like 4 or 5 feet in diameter, so they even needed to use their air pump to inflate it since it would take a human all week just to blow the thing up. It was way too big to use for anything so it sat there all week -- and at the end of the weekend we needed to deflate it, which took a while. While it was deflating, Flop put a beer bottle in front of the valve to try to make the bottle "sing." -K.D.
7. There was a night after a Michigan game and many beers at The Hairy Monk. I left to go elsewhere, and after whatever I did (probably some other bar night) I called Flop to see if he was still at the Monk. I returned to find that he not only appeared to have met everyone in the bar, but that he was excitedly talking to a woman. In French. --B.F.
   
8. He makes out with girls near smelly men's room doors. He once dumped Budweiser into my coffee, he puked into an empty beer pitcher on his 21st birthday, he likes to shimmy, some people call him Monkey Boy, and during college, a barbecue at his house was interrupted by a family of skunks. He used to adjust himself in public a lot, but not so much lately. --J.E.
   

Enjoy your thirties, Fucker.

Only the weak hate cold

You don't know cold from shit.

Where I grew up we had days where school was canceled because of 40-below windchills.

Where I grew up your spit would freeze before it hit the ground.

Sorry, precious, that you bundle up in layers and scarves and hats and gloves and walk around shivering and scowling because it's a balmy fifteen-degrees. I'm the dude who stepped out of his office without putting on a jacket and is taking a short walk around the block while I smoke a cigarette. This is perfectly comfortable. I laugh at your weakness.

Where I grew up we used to wear shorts on the first forty-degree day. It was usually late March. Snow was on the ground. We wore shorts because it felt good.

Where I grew up, on single-digit nights we'd all head out in our snow gear. All the neighborhood kids tied sleds to the back of snowmobiles. The drivers sped through backyards hauling sleds full of kids. It was five degrees.

Where I grew up, you'd cross-country ski shirtless because nine degrees was too hot to wear shirts when you cross-country skied.

Where I grew up, you'd shiv someone with an icicle if they bitched about being cold.

In fact, I'm pretty sure I could have been this kid. Indeed, on Sunday, I would have been this kid, if Flop were more creative with dares. Reports the Associated Press:

A teenager who wanted to continue the family tradition of running around the garden barefoot during halftime of the Super Bowl game has learned a painful lesson.

It was 17 below zero at halftime Sunday in this city about 30 miles northwest of Minneapolis, and D.J. Brown's dad said it was too cold to continue the tradition. But the 18-year-old senior at Buffalo High School ran outside in his T-shirt and jeans, threw off his socks and shoes, and ran around the block.

Brown said he was outside only five minutes, but his feet started swelling and blistering when he got back inside. The pain was excruciating.

"I consider myself having a high pain threshold, and this was just so 10 out of 10," he said. "I was, like, chewing on a towel."

***

Brown, who said he's a straight-A student, chalked up his actions to "teenage arrogance."

Brown hopes others will learn from his mistake. "I wouldn't want anyone else to go through this," he said.

Pussy.

You know what sucks worse than frostbite on your feet?

Summer.

The first day it's 80 degrees, I'm going to be a whiny little bitch. My insides will cook. I'll have sunburns in five minutes and my hair will turn blond. One block walking and I'll be drenched in sweat.

You fuckers will go to the beach. I'll be lying face down in front of an air conditioner, sunburned and blond, wishing it were fifteen degrees so that I could be comfortable and happy.

Dumbasstic days

After a busy, stressful, eventful, happy and boozy weekend, it's hard to do anything but recuperate on Monday.

My weekend was not as excitement-filled as last weekend's, in which cookies were kicked, breakfast bars were obtained and consumer electronics were purloined. It was not without it's charms, however; Bourbon, cards, football, old movies _ you know, the usual suspects. I was not without my dumbass moments, however. Betting too eagerly on one hand left me short-stacked and desperate and I was the first one to bow out after a necessary reach with a 7-10 suited. On Saturday night I had to walk down a cold and windy seventh avenue before sprinting for a crosstown bus because I left my cash and ATM card at home. A friend and a goodly quantity of libations were waiting patiently for me at my local tavern. Yesterday, the day I bet myself out of the game, I spent mostly riveted to football on the TV, and an excellent movie called "12 Angry Men", which I recommend unreservedly if you like talky, thoughtful movies that confirm both your faith and despair over the state of humanity.

After all that, today has been blessedly restful and restorative. I made myself a near-perfect goat cheese omelette for breakfast, then followed up at dinner with some sausage, with napa cabbage I quartered, dredged in olive oil, salt and pepper, then stuck in a pan, flat side down until the edges of the leaves turned nicely brown. Some fresh-grated parmesan and a bit more salt and pepper, and I was in kitchen-improv heaven. Sometimes these thunderclap inspirations fall apart, either from a lack of execturion or a failure of imagination. But this is one of my most successful. I think I've just added a new dish to my repertoire. Monday has earned its keep after all.

Great Moments in Dumbassery

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.

Wishing you and yours a smashtastic 2007

Ugly Betty is for girls, but I know a photo when I see one.

Love,

Your friends at Cole Slaw Blog

Auld lang syne, you fool

I know the saying that New Year's Eve is for amateurs, a cliche grounded in the erroneous assumption that professionals take time off.

New Year's Eve, like St. Patrick's Day, has evolved into an event with specific traditions and rituals. The amateurs pay inflated cover charges and get sloppy; we pack refrigerators, write some new rules, raid K-Mart's toy section, and get sloppy. Please don't spend New Year's Eve overdressed or paying covers or shouting over a bunch of bankers and the women who love them.

Dec. 31, 2002

Where: Apartment party at the home of Blog Perv Danielle, which was attended by approximately 400 people.

Who: Me; Flop; Danielle; the Watchman; a high school friend who had recently left the Marines; every spiky-haired fraternity alumnus from Long Island

Memorable Events: Attendees take refuge in Danielle's bedroom, therein avoiding frat hell. Flop and the Watchman engage in a heated argument about who is the bigger dictator when it comes to selecting bars. The night later ends at Raccoon Lodge on the Upper East Side.

Lessons learned: Massive parties are difficult; don't fight with Watchman.

Dec. 31, 2003

Where: South Pasadena, Calif., at the home of a college friend. The following day, Michigan plays USC in the Rose Bowl.

Who: Me; Flop and his then-girlfriend Chuggy; Evil Girl and her boyfriend; our host and his future fiancee; numerous other luminaries from college, high school and the workplace.

Memorable Events: Flop demolishes a sawhorse with a shovel; I take joyrides in a wheelchair and spray guests with a garden hose; a middle-aged guy crashes the party to tell us how much he loves the University of Michigan; some low-key romantic intrigue.

Lessons learned: Surprising props, creative destruction, and a crowd limited to friends are essential to a New Year's party.

Dec. 31, 2004

Where: The apartment of Flop's once-and-future roommate Brian.

Who: Me; Flop; Brian; HMQ2K5; other dignitaries.

Memorable Events: Flop and I spend $50 at K-Mart on silly string, plastic swords, balloons, and a tiara for the ladies. Shortly before midnight, we crown HMQ2K5, thus beginning a tradition of granting one lucky lady a royal title for the succeeding year. At around 2 a.m., Brian's then-roommate and I stand on the roof and shout greetings to pedestrians below.

Lessons learned: Every lady wants to be treated like royalty. Never underestimate silly string. When cheerfully greeted by strangers two floors up, some pedestrians feel honored and others grow angry.

Dec. 31, 2005

Where: My apartment.

Who: Me; Flop; Brian; HMQ2K5; Blog Perv Danielle and her boyfriend; various A-listers.

Memorable Events: Bulk purchase of toy guns that shoot ping-pong balls and rubber darts leads to q nightlong shootout. Blog Perv Danielle is crowned Queen of 2006, leading to abbreviation BPDHMQ2K6. A lime fight and the massive release of silly string requires surprisingly difficult, still-ongoing clean-up efforts. Scenes like this:


Lessons learned: Silly string and lime wedges can get behind your bookshelves, petrify, and stay there forever. Flop should have no contact with firearms. Girls like to have their names engraved on trophies.

Year-end review

Roaringest Radical Resurgance

Living With War, by Neil Young. It was a sledgehammer protest album released at the key moment in the zeitgeist, an anti-Bush, anti-war wolf whistle that happened to rock hard. Neil's dreary 2005 release "Prairie Wind" sounded like the twilight of a great artist content to fade away. In its ragged glory, "Living With War" showed an angry legend rage against the dying of the light. It brought his career, politics, and music full circle.

And for those who considered it too blunt: fuck subtlety. Sometimes, metaphor can sound like an apology. This was Neil's year to thrash.

Best Reason to Go to Minor League Ballparks

Because they're Bob Dylan's summer tour venues of choice. As I wrote at the time, there's something irreplaceable about "watching him in an infield the size of Webster Hall, looking up during 'It's All Right Ma, I'm Only Bleeding,' and seeing the Big Dipper overhead."

Best Show that Has Zero Gimmicks But Nails it Completely

Friday Night Lights.

If you don't love this show, we have less in common than I thought.

Best Show that Nobody Watched

Sons & Daughters on ABC was the heir to Arrested Development. The show died an early death, and now all I have are episodes saved on Tivo that I watch once a month and refuse to delete.

Best Show Ever

The Thick of It on BBC America. Angry bureaucrats who want to kill each other shout expletives behind closed doors. Sabotage and betrayal are ways of life. In these respects, it depicts the workplace more authentically than either version of The Office.

Best Movie that Nobody Wanted to See

United 93. Not to kill the mood or anything, but in addition to being a damn fine piece of filmmaking, it was a major cultural moment to see the events of that day depicted without kitsch or sloganeering or sentimentality. Less exploitative than anything you'll see on network news or the History Channel. Makes you want to be a better person and an angrier person and to care deeply about things. It is superb and grueling and indispensible.

Best Novel of 2006

The Road by Cormac McCarthy. At some point in junior high I started reading Stephen King. Ever since, I've been waiting for a book that kept me up until 3 a.m., leaving me with nightmares, causing me to wake the next day feeling bleak and tired and just a little bit scared. The Road did that, and then left me reeling for entirely different reasons. It's a book about the end of the world, as cross-bred with The Old Man and the Sea, As I Lay Dying, and The Plague. Man against nature? Check. Questions about civilization? Yes. Poignant depiction of a father and son? Yes. That, and starvation and cannibalism, mercy and cruelty, and a landscape so deftly described that I believed it in full.

It freaked out my inner thirteen-year-old and then gave me one of my best reading workouts since college.

Best Novel of 2006 That I Didn't Want to Read

The Emperor's Children, by Claire Messud. A book with a terrible title, a plot that sounds like a weak Jay McInerney imitation, written with too many adverbs and adjectives, about people that are intensely unlikeable. But like Anthony Powell's A Dance to the Music of Time, Claire Messud's novel draws a panorama of ambitious writers, thinkers, socialites and businessmen, letting their clashing agendas and egos leisurely burn themselves out in a series of social gatherings and romantic indiscretions. Powell's characters became a part of the world with World War II, and Messud uses 9/11 to similar effect. Her portrayal of September 11 isn't totally persuasive, but it's serviceable, which is better than any other novelist has so far mustered.

Best Novel of 2006 That Was Cruelly Overrated, Thus Setting Up the Writer to Be Later Condemned as a Disappointment

Special Topics in Calamity Physics, by Marisha Pessl. Sometimes talented young writers publish good first novels. Anxious for hope in the future of literature, critics and readers hype the book's quality beyond reason. Rather than being lauded as talented authors with potential, the young writers instead are compared to Pynchon and Nabokov and Salinger. They publish subsequent novels, which are received as disappointments and cannibalized. The young writers never had a prayer.

This year's victim was Marisha Pessl, who gave us a perfectly entertaining and thoughtful novel that overexcitable critics have tried to ruin through overpraise. Nabokov? Not even close. An ambitious mixed success written by a likeable and promising voice? Yes, and that's good enough.

Best Working Band Since the Stones Released Sticky Fingers

The Hold Steady burned itself so deep into my brain that on a recent night stumbling out of a bar, I blurted lyrics ad naseum and continued sputtering them for blocks.

Sure, I think that their fall release Boys and Girls in America fell just a tad below the standards that the band set in Separation Sunday and Almost Killed Me, but it still creates a lyrical epic of lost love, moments of clarity and all the flashpoints where everything simultaneously goes so right, so wrong, and so drunk. Over three albums, they've assembled a singular and persuasive cast of characters and drawn a roadmap to the United States -- comparable to Bob giving us Desolation Row, the story of Highway 61, and Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts.

Best Description of The Hold Steady by a More Objective Observer

Courtesy of Jeff Weiss:

The Hold Steady are a cult. Like Scientology. Or Kaballah. Or Cory Kennedy (No Vincent Gallo). Except that they don't want your money, your time, or your ability to make Cobrasnake's site traffic spike. They just want you to have a good time. That's all. They offer everything you could want. Boozy anthems for the frat-boys, introspective lyrics for the ladies, relateable tales for the teens, literary leanings for the book dorks and enough substance abuse references to satisfy Mel Gibson. Boys and Girls is the Hold Steady's best album yet, a complex and articulate collection of 11 short stories of growing up in America. Inspired by a Kerouac quote about "boys and girls in America having such a sad time together," they too will live on like the deceased novelist. People will always need things to make them a little less sad.

Best Excuses for Going Hoarse

Photo taken from GRW's photostream.

The Hold Steady's 2006 shows at Warsaw and Irving Plaza.

I think you're old enough to know that if you're lucky, once in a decade you'll experience a show where the performers and the crowd are synchronized, and your arms go sore and your voice gives, and there's a flash of intensity and comeraderie usually limited to a stadium at the moment of your team's biggest triumph. This year we got two of these.

In summary, I consider this band enjoyable.

Best Reasons Not to Throw in the Towel

Ohio: For once, not ruining the country.

Senators-elect Bernie Sanders, Jim Webb, Sherrod Brown, Claire McCaskill and John Tester.

Never happy with New York's two senators, for the last few years I've thought of Barbara Boxer and Patrick Leahy as my own two. But in addition to restoring my faith in the Republic, this fall brought a crop of tough, no-nonsense, populist progressives to the U.S. Senate. Any one of them alone would be enough to celebrate.

Sure, some may turn out to be disappointments, but for the first time in my adult life, candidates that I love won.

Three More People You Should Try to Meet in Heaven* (2006 ed.)

Ann Richards, Bo Schembechler and Gerald Ford.

*Secular atheist version.

Best Unexpected Side-Effect of Attending the Michigan-Vandy Game

Accompanying a five-month-old baby to her first college football game. Because there's nothing like watching LaMarr Woodley flatten some prissy Southern- awwwwwww...


If you've never experienced it, going to a game with 110,000 of your best friends and enjoying four hours of pageantry and ass-kicking is a pretty visceral experience, and - awwwwwwww...

Best Use of Numbers

Michigan 47, Notre Dame 21.

Worst Unexpected Side-Effect of Whupping Notre Dame

Getting so drunk that you believe you're in Ann Arbor even though you're in a bar on Second Avenue. Hectoring friends about how you want to go hang out in a dorm that nobody liked in the first place, and then licking their faces when they decline.

Waking up the next day surprised that you managed to walk home without getting in a fight or getting arrested.

Best Sports Photo of 2006

Best Way to Work Through the Pain of Losing to Ohio State

Hold a ladies' arm-wrestling tournament in the kitchen.

Best Bar For Getting Mooned by Ass-Chicks

Loreley.

Blog-Related Honors

Best post by Flop that No One but Me Liked: Fun with mascots

High-Concept Posting Series that Failed: Excitable Young New Yorker. I entertained myself, but confused and/or pissed off the rest of you. A pompous, vulgar, needy, self-absorbed, moderately racist, clumsy, overemotional twentysomething? Yeah, I guess she wasn't as far-fetched as I thought. Sorry for the confusion.

Anticipated Fanboy Political Crush of 2007: Al Gore.

Mea Culpa: Duke Lacrosse. Yeah, I was pretty wrong. I guess I should have learned by now always to assume the worst of people in power. Is it possible that I should be even more cynical?

Most Surprisingly Successful Experiment with Live-Blogging: Hoot!

Best Trend in Late-Night Noisemaking

Hooting. Elegant in its simplicity, a little rooftop hooting cleans the soul. With a beer in hand, look up at surrounding towers and unloose a long, steady, "Hoot!"

Awesome.

Best Trend in Late-Night Aggression

Tie: head-butting; face-licking.

Second place: headlock.

Third place: punching in the forearm.

Best Excuse to Hold an Impromptu College Reunion

Turning 30.

For an immature asshole, I get to have a lot of friends.

Guest post, Part II: Excitable Young New Yorker experiences new people

[Editor's Note: I previously agreed to let Excitable Young New Yorker do a second guest-post recapping her Saturday adventures. I'm not proud of that decision, but I'm a man of my word, so here's her unedited report on the evening. I doubt that you'll be seeing her here again. -CrimeNotes]

[Note from EYNYer: This post has been corrected to satisfy one of my many fans.]

Pay $30 for all the Midori-and-Jack on the rocks that I can drink, while simultaneously hanging out at a super-selective party attended only by the most elite New York bloggers? Now that's my idea of a good time!

So I went to Blogmukkah, which commemorates the anniversary of the time when all of the bloggers rose up and to win a battle against their mothers' basements. It exceeded my expectations in all respects but one.

At first I was really excited to meet CrimeNotes because he invited me to guest-post and because he's super-hot. But the first thing he said to me was, "Wow, you're a chick. I always assumed that you were a high-strung gay dude."

I took offense at that because there's nothing wrong with being gay. Because I'm polite, I tried to change the topic and asked him if he likes Ugly Betty. He said that it's fine but then started talking about football, and then he asked me if I get flack for blogging at work and whether it ever made me nervous to say so much about myself online. I asked him what that was supposed to mean.

"Look dude," he said, "all I'm saying is that someday you'll probably regret saying so much crazy shit about yourself." And I said, "First of all, I'm not a dude, I'm a woman, and second, I live my life without regret, and I pity those who regret." What I really wanted to say is, "CrimeNotes, I love you want to vomit and stab." He isn't very sophisticated.

He kept talking to Brian RYAN from Pissed and Petty because Brian RYAN has this plan for all the bloggers to build homemade hovercrafts so that they can get to Ellis Island and take pictures of each other. He was showing us tidal charts and talking about the times he fought with the Coast Guard and NASA. I told him that I'd participate, but actually I won't (sorry, Brian RYAN!) because I'm scared of open water (pollution, sharks, etc.) and because I'm not an immigrant (thank God). I told Brian RYAN that us bloggers should pool our resources to make a fleet of homemade helicopters so that during summers we can all chopper out to our summer shares in the Hamptons. Brian RYAN said that he doesn't go to the Hamptons. Maybe he was being ironic?

And then I met Idiot and talked about balding. Fellas, if you're going bald, you need to use Propecia.

But best of all is Flop. He does all kinds of funny dances and he gave me a McDonald's cheeseburger. I told him that he has very womanly hips but that I could deal with that. "Thanks, baby," Flop said. "Wanna make out?" So we did (make out) for awhile (underneath the beer pong table) until I had to go to the bathroom (bad) and when I came out he was distributing more cheeseburgers. Sigh ...

He has this roommate, Her Lease, that annoyed me at first because I wanted to start relationships with some of the boy bloggers, but they were all talking to her instead. Still, Her Lease seems kind of sweet once you get to know her. I wish her luck in relationships.

It was all like Sex and the City but cooler because it's real. I went out to have a cigarette with the drunk brunch girl, who was wearing a scarf made out of sponged intestines. "Don't you sometimes feel like your life is just so exciting and fascinating, and that you're so lucky to be a part of this great big world of blogs and New York?"

"I feel all that," she said, "and more."

In short, except for CrimeNotes, who is fine I hate, it was really nice to make so many new friends. The best of friends, really.

Guest Post: Excitable Young New Yorker is on beverage probation

[Editor's Note: Via a lapse in judgment by people who don't realize how poorly socialized we are, Flop and I received an e-mail invitation to Blogmukkah. We're not traditional New York bloggers or active in the blogging community -- aside from the occasional neighborhood reference, this haphazard operation could just as well be run out of Kentucky. We still haven't figured out whether we'll make the party. Still, to get in the spirit of this blog-related holiday, we thought that we'd invite up-and-coming new blogger Excitable Young New Yorker to guest-post about the subject of his (or her) choosing. Enjoy. -CrimeNotes]

So first off, I'd like to thank the Cole Slaw Blog guys for inviting me to guest post today. I didn't go to some dumb football school, I'm not from Cleveland and I don't like to read, so I'm not going to bore you with some long ramble about team rankings or iron ore or whether a book is good. Instead, I'm going to write about my recent misadventures. You know, something that normal people are actually interested in? (Just kidding, guys! Your asscrack post inspired me to enter blogging!)

It all started last Friday morning when I woke up early to go to Duane Read. I had to buy some hair gel because I had a big day ahead. It took me forever to find the right kind of Dep, and it didn't help that some guy was just standing there, staring forever at all the different hair gels, and separating me from the Dep.

That's the thing that sucks about Duane Reade. If it's not some incredibly slow person who probably dropped out of high school taking forever to ring up your toilet paper while she talks on the cell phone and fiddles with her fake nails, it's some middle-aged guy just standing there, in the middle of those narrow aisles, coming between you and your product of choice.

Work was no better. They made me go to some seminar about how not to sexually harrass and what happens if you're sexually harrassed. (Query: Did it ever occur to them that blowjobs in the supply room are a fun thing? I'm just saying ...) So there I am, sitting in this room with all these ugly people who couldn't get laid to save their life, and I can barely keep awake because I'm still hungover from my late night at Monkey Bar the night before. So I'm drinking lots and lots of coffee, so bad that I have to get up to pee twice in an hour. So after going to the bathroom I come back and go to pour myself a cup of coffee, and when I go to sit down, I put my coffee down wrong, and it spilled all over the conference table.

"Excitable Young New Yorker," my boss said, "consider yourself on beverage probation."

And I was thinking, "WTF? Beverage probation? Is this high school?" But I need the job so I just said that I was sorry (again!) and that I'd be more careful with my beverages, but what I really was thinking was, "I need to work someplace where my talents are appreciated."

Don't even get me started on what happened when I went to get my lunch at Urban Pain. You don't even want to know.

But still, I was in a good mood, because it was Friday, and I was going to the Glamourama Glaucoma Gala that night. My friend Hank, who went to college with me, was getting me in free because his company is a sponsor.

I spent all afternoon reading blogs. Work on Friday afternoon? Not me. I read all the blogs and thought about my own blog and drafted a post about what it's like to wait in line at Cosi (I don't know why Gawker refused to link to it) and then I left 20 comments on [redacted] about how awesomely hilarious he is -- the perfect person.

The next thing I knew, the day was over.

So then when I finally get to the subway platform, there's some homeless guy standing halfway down the station, taking a shit by one of the girders. It was the most disgusting thing I've ever seen, and my only regret is that I lost my camera phone so that I can't post a picture on here for everybody to see. I mean, taking a dump. In the subway station. I haven't done anything like that since the Siren Festival a couple summers ago, and that was only because I couldn't hold it anymore, and at least I was ashamed. I certainly wouldn't do it in a subway station, and it sucks that I don't have any photographic evidence to show you what it looks like. (I want a new Razr!)

So then I got on the 6 train, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you, being on the 6 during rush hour is like being in the twelfth circle of hell. Can I just say that I don't care how many jobs you work, how many kids you have, or how ethnic you are: there is simply no excuse for a woman to have a big ass. So hit the gym more often, ladies, because I don't want your big middle-aged asses bumping into me while I'm on the 6 train, okay?

Suffice it to say, I arrived at the Glamourama Glaucoma Gala in quite the unglamourous mood. Bret Easton Ellis read from his pretend fiction about real-life D-list celebrities while the very same D-list celebrities walked down a runway wearing all the latest fashions from today's hottest designers. It was for charity, which made me feel worthy and self-aware. I also felt completely in over my head at this event, but isn't that why we all come to New York? To be a part of things like this, that you can't go to anywhere else in the world? It was really cool to be there, sipping my signature drink (Jack and midori on the rocks) while celebrities were mingling around me. I don't want to be indiscreet by repeating what I learned about my new friends, but let me just say this -- methinks that Elizabeth Hasselback probably doth have an interesting cooter.

I promptly got trashed and danced the worm with Sam Champion. The pictures are probably all over Flickr.

After the Glamourama Glaucoma Gala, Hank and I met up with Mark, Peaches and Sandy at a dive bar. I love dive bars. We took over the Mp3 jukebox and partied for awhile, and then went to Sandy's apartment to watch some "To Catch a Predator" episodes that Sandy saved on Tivo.


"To Catch a Predator" always makes me think of relationships. I don't know why everything has to be this hard, and I mean everything. Especially relationships. Sometimes relationships make me so upset that I sit in my apartment drinking Jack-and-midori and chainsmoking, and then I ball up my fists and pound the coffee table until I cry. And then I feel better, because I love being self-aware. Why does everyone I date hurt me in the end? Oh well, such is life.

By the time we left Sandy's, I was so wasted that I was singing Poison's "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" during the cab ride home, which is kind of embarrassing, except that I'm pretty sure the driver didn't speak English, so for all he knew I was singing a hymn, which would be embarrassing, too.

Needless to say, I woke up the next morning hungover, which was a problem, because I needed to meet Aunt Vadge for brunch.

Anyway, my Aunt Vadge (Vadge is short for Virginia) is pretty cool, a real role model for what I'd like to be when I get older. My whole family is a bunch of drunks very outgoing and social, but not in the way where you drink Corona out of the bottle next to a bodega that's classless. Aunt Vadge once got sick on Bloody Marys at brunch. Fortunately, we were sitting outside, so she just leaned to her right and puked over the rope, right onto the sidewalk. It was very smooth. I don't think anybody caught it. When the manager came out and started yelling at us, Aunt Vadge pointed to some homeless guy across the street and said that he did it, and that she was disgusted and offended to be accused. The manager ended up apologizing, the homeless guy got arrested, and we got a basket of pastries on the house. Gotta love Aunt Vadge.

Anyway, I showed up for brunch on the Upper West Side. Aunt Vadge and her boyfriend Max were arguing about the Times crossword puzzle.

"Excitable Young New Yorker," Aunt Vadge said, "it looks like you had a late night. You need a cup of coffee."

"I can't have coffee," I said. "I'm on beverage probation."

She didn't get the joke.

Reader, I bet you can guess what happened next: I got so worked up talking to Aunt Vadge about relationships that I spilled coffee on myself.

Beverage probation indeed.

In media res

I woke up Thanksgiving morning hungover on a friend's couch.

His parents whispered when they put a turkey into the oven. They didn't want to wake me.

Under my film of cigarette stink, I was reminded that I liked New York's smoking ban. It isn't just the cigarette smell, it's the way the odor corrupts your pores and reminds you of terrible hangovers from the past. Post-ban, I still wake up in my apartment hungover and some mornings my throat is dry from last night's Marlboro Lights, but there isn't the blanket of bar stench, a smell that I associate with the ripest hangovers from college.

It was a little after 8 a.m. I heard the sounds of small kids upstairs. It was time to find my parents' car.

* * *

I take competition seriously, even when it's beer pong. Mike and I went 3-0 in beer pong at an afterbar, which played out in the basement of some guy who must have been 21 or 22. I hadn't played much beer pong since college, but Mike and I dominated. On game three everyone was running out of steam. It turned into one of those matches where you need 30 tries to finish off the final two cups, which we eventually did to close the night undefeated.

It was late. We were bombed in a basement full of strangers almost a decade younger than us, in a house in the redneck town where we grew up.

* * *

"I want you to go back to New York and carry a message to [Flop]," my friend Jeff said as we left this afterbar. "I want you to tell him that he could never cut it here."

"No way, dude," I said. "[Flop] sees weirder shit than this before lunch. If [Flop] were here, he'd be humping a fat girl in the corner of that basement."

Jeff and I have a running argument about whether, in a hypothetical fight between me and his younger brother, he would side with me. He insists that he would take his brother's side. I don't like this, so I tackled him. Catching him offguard, he landed in the front lawn before quickly regaining the upper hand.

"That's fine," I said. "You win."

I wanted breakfast. It was 4 a.m. We walked to a Coney Island place rumored to be open 24 hours. It was closed for Thanksgiving.

There were five of us. We were too drunk to drive. It was too far for any of us to walk home.

There's a girl in her mid-20s who grew up in this town and now lives in Williamsburg. She was with us. A few weeks earlier, some of us had met up for beers and dinner at Zum Schneider on Avenue C -- normal enough, but then I consider that growing up we perceived any town with a movie theater to be a major city, and Zum Schneider seems like a small victory.

"I'll call my dad," she said. "He'll take everybody home."

Waiting for her dad, we cajoled some of the restaurant's departing employees to give us cigarettes. I begged them to make me poached eggs. They politely declined.

The dad arrived. For a middle-aged man called at 4 a.m. to pick up his adult daughter and four strange, drunk guys, he was pretty nice about it.

My parents live far outside of town. It would have taken 20 minutes for them, round trip. Hence, I would crash at Jeff's parents' house.

* * *

As Mike observed, it used to be that when you came back to town and went to a bar, you couldn't walk 10 feet without running into someone who would buy you a drink. Wednesday was not one of those nights. There were three of us in the ballpark of 30 years old, in a bar full of 21- and 22-year-olds. There were no stray friends, and few younger siblings of friends. The generations had transitioned.

It was an ego blow that no one I spoke to had heard of me.

"Hi," said the beefcat. "I give great head. What do you do?"

The beefcat was 22 or 23. She was subtle, a little shy.

She directed her charms to several of us, not just me personally. After she established her bona fides (she graduated from a competitive private university in the mid-Atlantic, was a fan of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and was studying for a Ph.D) the situation seemed less dangerous. Certain girls -- hardcore rural girls, who live in the area their whole lives, coping with all kinds of meanness, worn out and begging for attention -- who show up on townie nights get drunk and get angry. They are a threat. This girl was being funny.

"Hell, I'll let all three of you fuck me," she said.

I moved a few feet to buy a round. When I came back, Mike had driven her away.

"What the hell did you do that for?"

"She was annoying as hell," Mike said.

"Dude, it was funny," I said. "She likes Sir Gawain. Besides, compared to everyone else here, you're fucking old. You should be flattered that she was even interested."

* * *

Earlier in the night, Mike, Jeff and I visited a girl we went to high school with. Wendy was one of the prettiest girls in our class -- she's still striking. Girls here look different than they do in New York. Most are worse for the wear, but the pretty ones seem cleaner and unaffected. Wendy's married now and lives near Detroit. She had her three-year-old son with her. We were at her parents' house. Her mom didn't recognize me at first.

I incited Wendy's kid. That's what I do. If a kid walks out with a ball, other people say to the little kid, "Wow! Where did you get that ball?" I say, "Cool ball, dude. Throw it at Grandma's head." Within 30 minutes the kid and I were throwing an inflated ball around the living room and knocking over candles.

Wendy talked about being a mom; her mom gave us cans of Labatt; her dad gave graphic descriptions of a recent check-up; Mike and I discussed buying investment property. Mike's real job involves the healthcare industry. He said something about how it seems like a lot of people in this town come down with cancer, and it's true, there seemed to be a lot of random death and illness here, more than I'm used to or hear about from other people. Growing up, there were too many fatal and near-fatal car accidents, and Mike's observation was right, there is a lot of cancer, although it's tough to guess whether it's something in the environment or just the side-effect of a region where there's not a lot of money and a low priority on healthy living.

People here get older faster. Most look older younger. They marry younger. They have young kids. They have a different kind of stress. It's stuff that shows up in peripheral vision, like the same game is playing out with different clocks, a dwindling number of us knocking around in prolonged adolescence while other people settled into premature maturity.

Wendy's dad talked about the burglary at a bar he used to own. Wendy talked about stealing liquor from that bar when she was 16.

It was getting late, and it seemed like her kid would have to go to sleep soon.

So we left that house at 11, with about five hours still to carry on.