Not ashamed, but not proud

I went out Saturday night with Randy and his friend Jason. We were thinking about going to JRs but opted instead for the nightly tragedy that is Omega. I have to admit I have a soft spot in my colon for Omega, as it’s probably the most “New Orleansy” bar in DC. Yes, that is supposed to be a back-handed complement. On a scale of tragicness it’s somewhere between Lafitte’s and Corner Pocket.

Hmmm. Let me re-phrase that.

If Lafitte’s and Corner Pocket conceived a bar on the pool table in the backroom of Rawhide, nine months later Omega would pop out of someone’s ass.

In a good way.

When there’s a good crowd at Omega the first floor is usually filled with the more uppity segment of Omega’s clientèle, standing around a big rectangular bar ogling muscley-fat strippers who wave their banana-hammocks in your face while you try to order a drink (that’s the Corner Pocket part.) Like Rawhide and Corner Pocket, it’s easier to start a conversation at Omega since people there are usually less guarded than at places like JRs or Halo, where the guys are more concerned about how their hair looks than actually meeting anyone new. People seem a little more friendly at Omega (that’s not necessarily a good thing) and I’ve managed to meet a couple guys there and talked for a while.

Of course, I never heard from them again, but you know.. at least I got a name and fake number!

Now, upstairs at Omega is a full-on freak fest. It’s like Lafitte’s but with a nicer bathroom and less leather. There’s porn playing in a weird room that everyone stands around and watches (I haven’t seen anyone getting jiggy with it though… they seem to be genuinely interested in the porn.. go figure.) This is where I saw the Peaches/Miss Piggy “Fuck The Pain Away” video for the first time. It’s how the previous generation remembers exactly where they were when Kennedy was shot except this isn’t the greatest leader of our time being assassinated, it’s footage of pig puppet manipulated to look as if it’s masturbating.

Same difference.

Anyway, I spent 25 minutes upstairs getting yelled at in Italian by some guy who apparently date(d?)s some big-wig food critic for the Post. Actually, he was trying to teach me some “necessary Italian phrases,” but all I remember is him rubbing my nipples and yelling “prego!” at me for a half hour. His insane, drunk friend was from Brazil and was fascinated by Randy’s t-shirt because it was green and had a bird on it. He gave Randy a hug and screamed “You like the Brazil, right!? I FROM BRAZIL! I Love this!”

He did. He loved this. For 40 minutes.

Around 2am after we ditched the Italian linguist and Brazilian envionmentalist, Randy and Jason left and I started talking to this guy who later invited me to Annie’s for a burger with his friends. They wondered home afterwards and I made my way to the Metro. No kiss or anything but I got his number so hopefully I’ll get to see him again. He seemed nice, through my drunken stupor.

Speaking of drunken stupor, I fell asleep on the train on the way home and woke up at 4:30am in Greenbelt.

“Fell asleep” sounds so much nicer than “Passed out,” right?

After getting into a semantics debate with a cab driver, I wound up paying $40 bucks to get home. Honestly, I still don’t even know where Greenbelt is, it could be around the corner from my house.

So, how was your weekend?

Broken noses on Bourbon Street

Tonight, as I was riding my bike in the general direction of work, my friend Randy calls me.

First the back story: Randy, as you should know, is a good friend and ex-drinking buddy of mine. In the last few months, Randy and I have both cut our drinking down way down from… like 13 hours a day to about 5 hours a month.

He, however, also lost about 60 pound and looks absolutely faaabulous.

Anyway, since he’s been drinking so much less, his tolerance is way down. When he called tonight, he tells me that around 3am last night he got trashed for the first time in months and made a scene at the bar because he could barely walk and wouldn’t accept an escort home. Randy then proceeded to storm out of the bar, falls down on a concrete staircase, landing on his face braking his nose and dislocating his shoulder.

Oh, he also had a seizure in the ambulance on the way to the emergency room.

How was your day.

Oh, and BIANCA’S back at bingo!

Continue reading “Broken noses on Bourbon Street”

The reports of my depression are greatly exagerated

I’ve been getting e-mails from people who think I’ve gone off the deep end and am approaching a Brian Wilson degree of bummedoutness. I assure you, the things I spew out on this blog are usually whatever I’m obsessing about at the moment and usually pass by the time I sober up wake up the next morning. Sadly, there will be no Pet Sounds emerging from my bedroom anytime soon.

On another note, I licked the newly bald head of my friend Randy the other night.

Never Refuse A Free Drink (or 13)

I think my grandmother once told me that. Then again, she was always so drunk you couldn’t really understand her.

Last night I made my usual Tuesday Night trip to the Pub for Video Request Night. I had my Obligatory Diet Cokes and was bored an hour after realising they moved Request Night to Wednesday. As I’m walking out the door I see a bar-friend of mine, Randy, who I haven’t seen out in a couple of months. Randy is a music geek like myself, so we always have fun talking about whatever video is on the screen.. who they are, who origianlly did the song, what we were doing the first time we heard it, stuff like that. Since I had company I decided to get screwdriver (1) drink. As I finish my cocktail Randy suggests we go to 80’s Night at Lafittes. As it’s only 9:30 and I didn’t feel like riding home just yet, I agree.

We get to Lafittes and he buys me a Double Kettle One Screwdriver (hereafter refered to as a DKOS.) I finish this, and he buys me another.

Who am I to not follow dear old grandmother’s advice?

After this second DKOS the bartender asks us if we want a shot.

Randy says yes.

It’s basically a concentrated Cosmopolitan, and it was much more than a shot. It was like, half the damn cup.

After I do the shot, there is still half a DKOS in my cup and randy is almost done with his. Randy then says “Bartender. I want something that is going to fuck me up.”

The bartender makes us a Double Tequila Sunrise (hereafter referered to as the kiss of death.)

We drink the kiss of death.

Randy procedes to buy me another fucking DKOS.

It’s like, midnight now, and I’m pretty much toast at this point so I get a diet coke and a water to try to sober up. Oh, and another DKOS. The bartender then asks if we want to try a drink he just made up. I’m not sure what it was, but there was a lot of it. This drink will hereafter be referered to as The Last Thing I Remember.

Next thing I know, Randy is waking me up at the bar, rolling me into a cab and shouting my address.

The entire cab ride home I am repeating to myself “Don’t pass out, don’t throw up. Don’t pass out, don’t throw up.”

I get home safely 5 minutes later. The cab driver giggles as I hand him whatever money is in my pocket ($30 for a $6 fare?) and I stumble to the curb and throw up in my front yard.


Ohmyfuckinggawd it’s like I was in highschool again. Except I didn’t drink in highschool.

In my defense I had the equivilent of 13 drinks and two shots in about 4.5 hours. OMG that’s fucking stupid once I see that in writing. What was I thinking???