Amazing Tales of Slothfullness
UPDATE: I just reread this and I'm pretty sure that this post is the most self-indulgent thing ever written in the history of everything ever. So, you know... fair warning.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Yeah, that whole bachelor’s weekend thing that I was talking about the other day? Ended up pretty lame. Not even "what a wacky tale of woe where just everything went wrong but it's okay 'cause we'll always have these funny stories" lame. Just "lame" lame. But, for the sake of all you ZFS! completests out there, here's a rundown of the last three days. I'll try to keep it brief so we can put this all behind us once and for all.
SATURDAY
-Starts off promising. I go to my office and watch a bunch of archived TV shows online. It's a pleasant, if a bit nerdy, way to spend the afternoon.
-Meet up with friends. We hit a bar. The bar's pressing charges for assault (HAHAHAHA! I'm hilarious? Right?).
-I drink a few pints of stout and a few glasses of whiskey. I experience that "maybe I've got a problem" moment when I realized that I'm well into my third cup whilst my friends are still lightly sipping their first. I heroically ignore that feeling until it limps away, which is how I handle any and all feelings of any sort. I am a rock. I am an island. And so forth.
-We stumble out into the street, the evening stretched out before us like a college graduate's dreams; unendingly hopeful and full of possibilities. Our destination? A party in the Bronx. We're all a little legless at this point, which is going to be my undoing in about thirty minutes.
-We make it to the subway platform and we wait. And wait. And... wait. No train. We're debating just saying "Fuck it" and going back to the bar when, of course, our train arrives on the opposite platform. Because I have, at this point, more than a little (that would be "a lot") alcohol coursing through my bloodstream, my reaction time's a little slow up the uptake. I realize, "Shit, I'm going to have to dash if I'm to make that train!" Unfortunately, my friends have realized this about ten seconds before me and are already down the stairs. I run. I am immediately stopped by a large, cruiserweight of a woman who is, along with her linebacker (I assume) friends, taking up the entire breadth of the staircase while moving at a speed that common garden slugs find "a bit too slow for our taste." By the time I make it around them, through the corridor, up the other set of stairs and on to the platform, the train is heading out of the station. With my friends on it.
-My options at this point are to A) Wait for the next train and try to catch up, or B) throw in the towel. I opt for B, because I don't technically know where I'm headed, what stop to get off at, where I'd go from there, etc. and the 9,000 coordinational phone calls that would be required to get me to the party seem like way too much of an effort. So I'm homeward bound.
-I attempt to read on the subway, but the words in my paperback insist on moving around too damn much, the hyperactive bastards. So I stare off into space.
-Once home, I proceed to drink a six pack of Hollandia 16oz-ers, I make some phone calls that I don't remember making the next morning, I stagger around and, finally, I pass out.
SUNDAY
-I awake monumentally, colossally hungover. It's the kind of hangover where you break out into randomly-spaced cold sweats and you have to carry a trashcan with you at all times because you're always thisclose to yawning in a technicolor fashion.
-I feel much better after a breakfast of peanut butter and crackers and some light dry-heaving
-I go over to my friend Lisa's house, where she's been nice enough to make lunch. Lisa is a recipe tester for a forthcoming vegan cookbook and I'm here to help her try out a new entry: Beer-Marinated Tempeh Tacos. I'm not what you'd call the biggest fan of vegan food, but having Lisa as a friend has opened my eyes wide enough to realize that it's not all bean sprouts and plates of mashed yeast. This dish proves that rule; it was spicy and flavorful, full of peppers and avocado and contained a great, crisp slaw. Damn good, when you get right down to it. I'll always prefer a burger in a side-by-side comparison, but it's nice to venture off into uncharted territory every now and again.
-I get home and decide to nap. I do so.
-I wake up too late to bother attempting to make plans with friends, so I get some pizza and settle in with some DVDs. A few more beers, some SportsCenter, and then I fall back asleep. This time, it's until morning.
MONDAY
-Up bright and early. Run some errands and get the house back into shape for Girlfriend's arrival. She's had a spectacularly rough time at home (a post about that unholy mess is forthcoming) and I want things to look nice when she gets here.
-I wait for the cable guy.
-While I wait, I manage to watch both commentaries on the Shaun of the Dead DVD; an activity I'd been saving for precisely such an occasion.
-Cable guy shows up. Fixes the Internet, finally for good, we're 90% sure.
-I drink the remainder of the beer that's in the fridge while I hunker down with the King of the Hill marathon on FX. The day slips away and suddenly, it's time to head out.
-I wander around Penn Station, having gotten there way earlier than I had intended. I avoid the bums and manage to not get trampled by the stampeding Jersey-ites running for their trains. Penn Station is a horribly depressing place, FYI. It's not as bad as Port Authority, of course (shudder), but it's still got a high level of general skank. Girlfriend's train shows up, two hours late, and she has the overall demeanor of a recent evacuee from one of the war-torn regions of our world.
-We make it home. We shower. We sleep.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Yeah, that whole bachelor’s weekend thing that I was talking about the other day? Ended up pretty lame. Not even "what a wacky tale of woe where just everything went wrong but it's okay 'cause we'll always have these funny stories" lame. Just "lame" lame. But, for the sake of all you ZFS! completests out there, here's a rundown of the last three days. I'll try to keep it brief so we can put this all behind us once and for all.
SATURDAY
-Starts off promising. I go to my office and watch a bunch of archived TV shows online. It's a pleasant, if a bit nerdy, way to spend the afternoon.
-Meet up with friends. We hit a bar. The bar's pressing charges for assault (HAHAHAHA! I'm hilarious? Right?).
-I drink a few pints of stout and a few glasses of whiskey. I experience that "maybe I've got a problem" moment when I realized that I'm well into my third cup whilst my friends are still lightly sipping their first. I heroically ignore that feeling until it limps away, which is how I handle any and all feelings of any sort. I am a rock. I am an island. And so forth.
-We stumble out into the street, the evening stretched out before us like a college graduate's dreams; unendingly hopeful and full of possibilities. Our destination? A party in the Bronx. We're all a little legless at this point, which is going to be my undoing in about thirty minutes.
-We make it to the subway platform and we wait. And wait. And... wait. No train. We're debating just saying "Fuck it" and going back to the bar when, of course, our train arrives on the opposite platform. Because I have, at this point, more than a little (that would be "a lot") alcohol coursing through my bloodstream, my reaction time's a little slow up the uptake. I realize, "Shit, I'm going to have to dash if I'm to make that train!" Unfortunately, my friends have realized this about ten seconds before me and are already down the stairs. I run. I am immediately stopped by a large, cruiserweight of a woman who is, along with her linebacker (I assume) friends, taking up the entire breadth of the staircase while moving at a speed that common garden slugs find "a bit too slow for our taste." By the time I make it around them, through the corridor, up the other set of stairs and on to the platform, the train is heading out of the station. With my friends on it.
-My options at this point are to A) Wait for the next train and try to catch up, or B) throw in the towel. I opt for B, because I don't technically know where I'm headed, what stop to get off at, where I'd go from there, etc. and the 9,000 coordinational phone calls that would be required to get me to the party seem like way too much of an effort. So I'm homeward bound.
-I attempt to read on the subway, but the words in my paperback insist on moving around too damn much, the hyperactive bastards. So I stare off into space.
-Once home, I proceed to drink a six pack of Hollandia 16oz-ers, I make some phone calls that I don't remember making the next morning, I stagger around and, finally, I pass out.
SUNDAY
-I awake monumentally, colossally hungover. It's the kind of hangover where you break out into randomly-spaced cold sweats and you have to carry a trashcan with you at all times because you're always thisclose to yawning in a technicolor fashion.
-I feel much better after a breakfast of peanut butter and crackers and some light dry-heaving
-I go over to my friend Lisa's house, where she's been nice enough to make lunch. Lisa is a recipe tester for a forthcoming vegan cookbook and I'm here to help her try out a new entry: Beer-Marinated Tempeh Tacos. I'm not what you'd call the biggest fan of vegan food, but having Lisa as a friend has opened my eyes wide enough to realize that it's not all bean sprouts and plates of mashed yeast. This dish proves that rule; it was spicy and flavorful, full of peppers and avocado and contained a great, crisp slaw. Damn good, when you get right down to it. I'll always prefer a burger in a side-by-side comparison, but it's nice to venture off into uncharted territory every now and again.
-I get home and decide to nap. I do so.
-I wake up too late to bother attempting to make plans with friends, so I get some pizza and settle in with some DVDs. A few more beers, some SportsCenter, and then I fall back asleep. This time, it's until morning.
MONDAY
-Up bright and early. Run some errands and get the house back into shape for Girlfriend's arrival. She's had a spectacularly rough time at home (a post about that unholy mess is forthcoming) and I want things to look nice when she gets here.
-I wait for the cable guy.
-While I wait, I manage to watch both commentaries on the Shaun of the Dead DVD; an activity I'd been saving for precisely such an occasion.
-Cable guy shows up. Fixes the Internet, finally for good, we're 90% sure.
-I drink the remainder of the beer that's in the fridge while I hunker down with the King of the Hill marathon on FX. The day slips away and suddenly, it's time to head out.
-I wander around Penn Station, having gotten there way earlier than I had intended. I avoid the bums and manage to not get trampled by the stampeding Jersey-ites running for their trains. Penn Station is a horribly depressing place, FYI. It's not as bad as Port Authority, of course (shudder), but it's still got a high level of general skank. Girlfriend's train shows up, two hours late, and she has the overall demeanor of a recent evacuee from one of the war-torn regions of our world.
-We make it home. We shower. We sleep.
posted by Clinton at 8:10 AM
2 Comments:
I hate when the words are too swimmy to read! I think this actually helps keep me and the drinking of the "water of life" as well as beer (as per Bardo's what to drink posting) in check. Also I am getting to the point where I will usually choose option B of A) continue on? Or B) go home to awesome sleepytime.
I was also waiting for a bit in Penn this weekend. I developed a hatred for the new train arrival annoucer there.
Word. Though I had a much stronger hatred for the never ending classical music loop and the terminal's pervasive bum stink.
Post a Comment
<< Home