Like a bull in a china shop, smash it up into smithereens.
Another weekend, another 48 hours of sleepless, drunken insanity. This one was especially insane, as I had come to view it as a kind of end-of-summer blowout. And as such, it did not disappoint. In fact, it’s almost a relief that it’s going to be the last weekend of its kind for a while, since I know I can’t continue this lifestyle into what is now becoming my busiest work period, in which I’ll have no choice but to buckle down and once again be a professional (as opposed to a born-again frat boy).
And so this long and strange season officially comes to a close.
Symbolically, this weekend has elevated itself to the position of climax of a profoundly crazy chapter that often found me crashing repeatedly (and unexpectedly) into unexpected people. Some more exciting than others, no doubt, but all generally good in their own twisted and sometimes beautifully disastrous ways. Like any good J. G. Ballard novel, I’ve seen the beauty in a bruise or a nasty break (or five), and ultimately in the indescribably sexy scars they leave behind.
Post-work Friday began with an especially satisfying hang-out with my friend J out on my terrace, sipping wine and feeling oh so civilized. Friday night found me at my friend D’s birthday bash, from which we segued to Turntables on the Hudson over at the Frying Pan, and had an absolute blast. I hadn’t eaten dinner (there’s a reason for that, which may or may not involve an intense makeout session), so you can imagine just how I was feeling by about 2:00 in the morning. But I soldiered on, and the payoff was good. And besides, D had to work all day Saturday, so I figured I had absolutely no excuse to not stay out and party, seeing as how my only plans involved further entertainment and instant gratification.
At one point in the night, when D and I were alone in a cab together, she engaged in some unwitting, serious stroking of my ego. Which was nice. In fact, this whole weekend served as a reminder that I am surrounded by some great and devoted friends, all of whom I love deeply and appreciate more than they will probably ever know. Since, you know, I’m generally an asshole.
So Saturday morning involved staying in bed until noon or so, at which point I got up and tried to make some sense of it all. Or at least, tried to get my act together in time to head down to the east village, where I met up with some fellow bloggers [I know I’m forgetting at least one link, so if someone wants to send it to me via comments or e-mail, I’ll put it right up. It was hard to keep straight which flesh-and-blood individual went with which digital representation of themselves, but I think I’ve got it...] had a few beers, and headed over to Wigstock in Thompkins Square. I hadn’t been to Wigstock since my first summer in NYC, when it was held over at the Christopher Street Piers, so the Thompkins Square setting was a nice return to an event I had only hot, crowded, and generally annoying memories of. And though this year’s show did get long (and annoying) at points, there were also some hilarious highlights. My two favorite (extremely offensive) jokes:
1) Where can you go to find a big bag full of tits? Outside the cancer ward!
2) Why did Hitler commit suicide? He got the gas bill!
(Told you they were offensive. Thanks Lady Bunny!)
Wigstock led to my friends Alpha and Omega’s final sunset rooftop bash of the summer (I’m not even linking to my brief account of the scandalous events that occurred at their last rooftop party—any interested persons will have to search for themselves) which was, as expected, quite a blast. Around 12:30 or so I actually made the move to leave (I swear!), thereby (I thought) assuring a good night’s sleep in my own bed. But I was ultimately convinced to stay (I am easily swayed in my convictions, in case that wasn’t blatantly obvious) and did end up crashing on their floor.
Oh, alright. There may have been a hook-up involved. Jesus. Shut up.
So Sunday, I stumbled back to my place around 3:00 pm, where I essentially laid around (after the best shower of my entire life) and drifted in and out of consciousness, before going out to help a dear friend with some odds and ends that needed my assistance. There. See, it wasn’t a totally self-serving, indulgent weekend of purely decadent bacchanalia. Some good was served. A little. Ok.
I said shut up.
And so this long and strange season officially comes to a close.
Symbolically, this weekend has elevated itself to the position of climax of a profoundly crazy chapter that often found me crashing repeatedly (and unexpectedly) into unexpected people. Some more exciting than others, no doubt, but all generally good in their own twisted and sometimes beautifully disastrous ways. Like any good J. G. Ballard novel, I’ve seen the beauty in a bruise or a nasty break (or five), and ultimately in the indescribably sexy scars they leave behind.
Post-work Friday began with an especially satisfying hang-out with my friend J out on my terrace, sipping wine and feeling oh so civilized. Friday night found me at my friend D’s birthday bash, from which we segued to Turntables on the Hudson over at the Frying Pan, and had an absolute blast. I hadn’t eaten dinner (there’s a reason for that, which may or may not involve an intense makeout session), so you can imagine just how I was feeling by about 2:00 in the morning. But I soldiered on, and the payoff was good. And besides, D had to work all day Saturday, so I figured I had absolutely no excuse to not stay out and party, seeing as how my only plans involved further entertainment and instant gratification.
At one point in the night, when D and I were alone in a cab together, she engaged in some unwitting, serious stroking of my ego. Which was nice. In fact, this whole weekend served as a reminder that I am surrounded by some great and devoted friends, all of whom I love deeply and appreciate more than they will probably ever know. Since, you know, I’m generally an asshole.
So Saturday morning involved staying in bed until noon or so, at which point I got up and tried to make some sense of it all. Or at least, tried to get my act together in time to head down to the east village, where I met up with some fellow bloggers [I know I’m forgetting at least one link, so if someone wants to send it to me via comments or e-mail, I’ll put it right up. It was hard to keep straight which flesh-and-blood individual went with which digital representation of themselves, but I think I’ve got it...] had a few beers, and headed over to Wigstock in Thompkins Square. I hadn’t been to Wigstock since my first summer in NYC, when it was held over at the Christopher Street Piers, so the Thompkins Square setting was a nice return to an event I had only hot, crowded, and generally annoying memories of. And though this year’s show did get long (and annoying) at points, there were also some hilarious highlights. My two favorite (extremely offensive) jokes:
1) Where can you go to find a big bag full of tits? Outside the cancer ward!
2) Why did Hitler commit suicide? He got the gas bill!
(Told you they were offensive. Thanks Lady Bunny!)
Wigstock led to my friends Alpha and Omega’s final sunset rooftop bash of the summer (I’m not even linking to my brief account of the scandalous events that occurred at their last rooftop party—any interested persons will have to search for themselves) which was, as expected, quite a blast. Around 12:30 or so I actually made the move to leave (I swear!), thereby (I thought) assuring a good night’s sleep in my own bed. But I was ultimately convinced to stay (I am easily swayed in my convictions, in case that wasn’t blatantly obvious) and did end up crashing on their floor.
Oh, alright. There may have been a hook-up involved. Jesus. Shut up.
So Sunday, I stumbled back to my place around 3:00 pm, where I essentially laid around (after the best shower of my entire life) and drifted in and out of consciousness, before going out to help a dear friend with some odds and ends that needed my assistance. There. See, it wasn’t a totally self-serving, indulgent weekend of purely decadent bacchanalia. Some good was served. A little. Ok.
I said shut up.
posted by P/O at 8/30/2005 09:30:00 AM
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