Monday, November 29, 2004
The Night Before Thanksgiving by the Numbers
Wednesday, 4 P.M. The four defiant pints of Blue Point ale at the Oyster Bar as one train after another is missed on its way up to the ancestral home of Manhattan Transfer.
Wednesday 8:10 P.M. The two bold bottles of Sam Adams Winter Brew in the library.
Wednesday 8:30 P.M. The three glorious glasses of Pinot Noir in the dining room. Some food was placed on a plate but went mostly untouched.
Wednesday 10:17 P.M. The five frenetic pints of Brooklyn Lager at B&B's bar and grill.
Thursday 12:30 A.M. The six tumblers of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey over ice, the four baileys and Guinness bombs, the three shots of tequila and the two shots of Jaegermeister. All of the above ill-conceived and consumed at the dive bar across the street from B&B's bar and grill.
Thursday 5: 16 A.M. The desperate bottle of Sam Adams Winter Brew with Overserved on the front steps of the ancestral home. "Do you think we’re going to make it?" Overserved asked. "I don’t know unless we try," I told him.
I have no idea what we were talking about but that is how the holidays make me feel. It's a fugitive feeling, a celebration at having slipped through another year undetected by the laws of consequence. Watching the sun rise on another Thanksgiving morning, I drunkenly dawn-dreamed that I was a deposed lord rowing a small vessel against the tide, leaving behind an era of betrayals, broken dreams and wounded hearts, my eyes on the ruins of a land I never could set in order.
I told Overserved this, adding something about a generation of vipers being baptized by a man in a fur coat, and he said, "Right. I have no idea what you are talking about. How long have you been drinking?"
"The whole time," I told him.
UPDATE: Overserved returns to blogging to post his version.
Wednesday 8:10 P.M. The two bold bottles of Sam Adams Winter Brew in the library.
Wednesday 8:30 P.M. The three glorious glasses of Pinot Noir in the dining room. Some food was placed on a plate but went mostly untouched.
Wednesday 10:17 P.M. The five frenetic pints of Brooklyn Lager at B&B's bar and grill.
Thursday 12:30 A.M. The six tumblers of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey over ice, the four baileys and Guinness bombs, the three shots of tequila and the two shots of Jaegermeister. All of the above ill-conceived and consumed at the dive bar across the street from B&B's bar and grill.
Thursday 5: 16 A.M. The desperate bottle of Sam Adams Winter Brew with Overserved on the front steps of the ancestral home. "Do you think we’re going to make it?" Overserved asked. "I don’t know unless we try," I told him.
I have no idea what we were talking about but that is how the holidays make me feel. It's a fugitive feeling, a celebration at having slipped through another year undetected by the laws of consequence. Watching the sun rise on another Thanksgiving morning, I drunkenly dawn-dreamed that I was a deposed lord rowing a small vessel against the tide, leaving behind an era of betrayals, broken dreams and wounded hearts, my eyes on the ruins of a land I never could set in order.
I told Overserved this, adding something about a generation of vipers being baptized by a man in a fur coat, and he said, "Right. I have no idea what you are talking about. How long have you been drinking?"
"The whole time," I told him.
UPDATE: Overserved returns to blogging to post his version.
