Unfortunately for me, 2011 did not start out with a bang. Instead I spent my New Year’s Eve behind the bar at Saloon with half-conscious twenty-one year olds tipping on every other drink all the while trying to stuff one dollar bills down my shirt in an effort to bribe me to kiss them when the ball dropped. Unfortunately for them, I was not in the hooking and/or pedophiliac mode and I therefore remained un-kissed (and thankfully, un-fondled) at the strike of twelve.
It turns out I wasn’t the only one who started 2011 off with inappropriate men. As Emily and I sat at the Stumble Inn and recounted the year past, she decided to recount her weekend past as well. Her on-again/off-again lover of the past two years, Bucky Badgerstein, had graced her with his belligerently drunk presence at 3:00am on Saturday—the same Bucky Badgerstein who she professed her undying lust for one drunken night by texting “I want your hard dick…in my soul.”
As seventeen too many Spotted Cows would have it, Bucky and Emily got down and dirty that night as Bucky whispered not-so-sweet nothings in Emily’s ear—so not-so-sweet that it can’t even be recounted in a blog about sex. Post-coital, Bucky decided it was time for a restroom break. He arose from a tangled pile of blankets in his beer-bellied haze to stumble to the bathroom. A half-asleep Emily suddenly heard a ruckus in the kitchen—could it be elves coming to bake her favorite cinnamon rolls to cure her morning hangover? Or perhaps her roommate making late-night Stouffer’s lasagna? She heard the oven door open, but no clanking of pots of pans, no whirring of a hand blender preparing the cream cheese frosting—only a solid stream of liquid hitting a baking rack.
Emily heard the oven door close and then nothing. Bucky never made it back to her bed. Instead, Emily found him stark naked in the fetal position on her couch, shivering and slurring his way to Sunday morning. She walked over to her stove to find it on at a cool 425 degrees as she later found out “to burn the germs off.”
As Emily and I sat at the bar, laughing at the ridiculousness of the men that we put up with, Brady Follows (aka The Hebrew Hammer) and Pepsi Wankerstein sauntered up to the bar to say hello, two whiskey-Coke loving fellows from our old school days of blacking out at Mad River.
“Hey Bacchus, remember when you came over to my apartment and drank nine bloody Mary’s and smoked a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights out my kitchen window?” Brady recounted from years past.
I sat at the bar perplexed with my chin resting on my hand as I sipped my Magner’s on ice. “I don’t remember, but it sounds about right,” I replied with puzzlement.
“And then we watched the season finale of So You Think You Can Dance,” he elaborated. Well if that doesn’t sound like one of my creepier nights, I don’t know what does.
I was racking my brain, but the memory was just not there. God only knew what else I didn’t remember, which I decided was probably for the best based on this small snippet of a story.
“Yeah, not ringing a bell. But I do remember when your dad walked in and found us passed out on your bed and I mistook him for Carlos, the bar back from Mad River. And then I had to borrow your t-shirt that had “Super Sexy” written in red velvet on the front. That was a damn good t-shirt.” I recalled as I also silently recalled how months later The Attorney eventually adopted that shirt, unknowingly that it was from a night I spent with another man. “And if it makes you feel any better, I don’t remember 85% of college.”
“Yeah, I don’t think my Jewish father with white hair appreciated being confused with a 5’ 4” Hispanic man from south of the border,” Brady chuckled. “And no, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
As we laughed on, Pepsi brooded in the background, obsessively checking his BlackBerry.
“What’s his deal tonight?” I asked, nodding toward the sulking Pepsi.
“He’s agonizing over his long-distance relationship with a Swiss chick he picked up on Euro night at Tin Lizzie. They communicate via Facebook now that her semester abroad has ended,” Brady explained.
“Well if that doesn’t make for a lasting relationship, I don’t know what does,” I declared as Brady, Emily, and I clanked our glasses together for a cheers.
Keep drinking, Upper East Side—it can only get better (and fuzzier) from here. Here’s to health, happiness, and hangovers in 2011…