Monday, December 05, 2005
Another Saturday In the Drunk Tank With the Go Team
The plan for Saturday morning was to wake up early and join Dynatrite (no updates ever) and Southern Gent for the UNC-Kentucky basketball game somewhere on the Upper East Side. Mostly I cannot be bothered to travel anywhere north of Union Square Park for drinks. The only exceptions are certain holidays and sporting events, when dodging the spilt beer and regurgitated liquor of fraternity-brothers-cum-investment-bankers is part of the fun. The night before I sent a text message out to Time Out's Jane Borden, a UNC graduate, letting her know her presence would be required uptown.
Southern Gent sent me a text at half-past eleven instructing me to rise and shine. My head was still full of Friday night's fun, though, so I rolled over and told myself I'd try to make it uptown for the second half of the game. When I openned my eyes a few minutes later three hours had gone past. The game was over. UNC won. No need to go to the UES. Brunch was happening down in Soho.
When I got to the brunch spot the food was mostly gone. Except for British Jess, who was so upset that it was her last day in New York City that she was having trouble keeping her food in her mouth. The only thing left to do was order two more bottles of champagne and try to catch up with the gang.
Stumbling around half-drunk after the liquid brunch we came across a four foot tall turkey monster in the window of Ted Baker.
(Let's take a parenthecial Time Out. Ted Baker is the official clothier of Manhattan Transfer ever since I discovered their Endurance line of business suits. You can wake-up on the floor of the Cellar in these things, brush yourself off and head straight to you. Well, I'm not sure you can do this, but I can. Okay. Time In.)
The monster was marked "Turkeyoke Turkey" or some such. Notice the microphone. Jess and Lisa E. decided that they needed to get down with the monster. At first the Ted Baker employees tried to stop them but later relented on the condition that if the girls broke the turkey they would have to buy it. (What is the going rate for a Karaoke Turkey Monster these days?)
Clearly this was a sign from the gods of Saturday (Saturn?). We needed to get our song on. So we bundled ourselves against the cold wind and headed up to Sing-Sing on St. Marks to begin what will hopefully be a regular event: bruncheoke (apologies to Janelle, from whom I think I stole that word).
A couple of Tall Boys of Miller Lite later and it was on.
Southern Gent shows us how to Bust a Move.
The shit was bananas.
Finally it was time for Jess to say her last goodbyes and head back home to Jolly Ole. She tried to use her trademark photo face to convince us that JFK was totally happening at five thirty on a Saturday afternoon and that we should all go there with her. A few more Tall Boys and that might have made sense. Fortunatley, the beer had run out before my sense of reality.
Next up was Double J's holiday party in the Village. Swampcity (less updates than Dynatrite!) was there, practicing giving men the evil eye.
As you can tell, everyone was having a really good time at this party.
The next party was in another apartment in the Village. Only two blocks away but about ten years more grown-up than Double-J's. Think people standing around drinking very slowly and chatting about their mortgages and admiring the art work hanging on the twenty foot high walls.
Blondie made nice with this guy, who claimed to be a friend of Dynatrite. (I cannot find the pictures in Flickr even though I swear I uploaded them last night.)
I'm not sure what time it was when we finally headed down to the Lower East Side's Loreley for yet another No Data. Actually, I know exactly when it was: too early. We got there and the place was empty. A few people were sitting at tables eating dinner.
This girl was as confused as we were. Where was everyone? Or maybe she was just wondering where her hips had gone and why she had forgotten to eat for the last two years.
Even DJs Dennis and Randeez were worried.
Blondie hit the bar and found another guy to chat with.
That was a good idea. Let's let the magic of booze and beer do its trick.
It worked. When I lifted my face out of the stein of Jever, kids were dancing everywhere.
The skinny girl still hadn't found her hips but she had stolen someone's shirt.
Southern Gent was still going after many hours under the tyranny of booze, song and women.
And pretty girls were there too.
I'm not sure how long I stayed. Dennis reports that the party went on until five in the morning. Youngna reports she captured me saying incriminating things on her dangerous ipod voice recorder. When we left the city was blanketed with snow and quiet. At home I slept the sleep that only the the Gods of Saturday night can grant you.
(Apologies to TeenDrama, from whom I totally stole this style of blog. Consider it a tribute in gratitude for a great Saturday night.)
Southern Gent sent me a text at half-past eleven instructing me to rise and shine. My head was still full of Friday night's fun, though, so I rolled over and told myself I'd try to make it uptown for the second half of the game. When I openned my eyes a few minutes later three hours had gone past. The game was over. UNC won. No need to go to the UES. Brunch was happening down in Soho.
When I got to the brunch spot the food was mostly gone. Except for British Jess, who was so upset that it was her last day in New York City that she was having trouble keeping her food in her mouth. The only thing left to do was order two more bottles of champagne and try to catch up with the gang.
Stumbling around half-drunk after the liquid brunch we came across a four foot tall turkey monster in the window of Ted Baker.
(Let's take a parenthecial Time Out. Ted Baker is the official clothier of Manhattan Transfer ever since I discovered their Endurance line of business suits. You can wake-up on the floor of the Cellar in these things, brush yourself off and head straight to you. Well, I'm not sure you can do this, but I can. Okay. Time In.)
The monster was marked "Turkeyoke Turkey" or some such. Notice the microphone. Jess and Lisa E. decided that they needed to get down with the monster. At first the Ted Baker employees tried to stop them but later relented on the condition that if the girls broke the turkey they would have to buy it. (What is the going rate for a Karaoke Turkey Monster these days?)
Clearly this was a sign from the gods of Saturday (Saturn?). We needed to get our song on. So we bundled ourselves against the cold wind and headed up to Sing-Sing on St. Marks to begin what will hopefully be a regular event: bruncheoke (apologies to Janelle, from whom I think I stole that word).
A couple of Tall Boys of Miller Lite later and it was on.
Southern Gent shows us how to Bust a Move.
The shit was bananas.
Finally it was time for Jess to say her last goodbyes and head back home to Jolly Ole. She tried to use her trademark photo face to convince us that JFK was totally happening at five thirty on a Saturday afternoon and that we should all go there with her. A few more Tall Boys and that might have made sense. Fortunatley, the beer had run out before my sense of reality.
Next up was Double J's holiday party in the Village. Swampcity (less updates than Dynatrite!) was there, practicing giving men the evil eye.
As you can tell, everyone was having a really good time at this party.
The next party was in another apartment in the Village. Only two blocks away but about ten years more grown-up than Double-J's. Think people standing around drinking very slowly and chatting about their mortgages and admiring the art work hanging on the twenty foot high walls.
Blondie made nice with this guy, who claimed to be a friend of Dynatrite. (I cannot find the pictures in Flickr even though I swear I uploaded them last night.)
I'm not sure what time it was when we finally headed down to the Lower East Side's Loreley for yet another No Data. Actually, I know exactly when it was: too early. We got there and the place was empty. A few people were sitting at tables eating dinner.
This girl was as confused as we were. Where was everyone? Or maybe she was just wondering where her hips had gone and why she had forgotten to eat for the last two years.
Even DJs Dennis and Randeez were worried.
Blondie hit the bar and found another guy to chat with.
That was a good idea. Let's let the magic of booze and beer do its trick.
It worked. When I lifted my face out of the stein of Jever, kids were dancing everywhere.
The skinny girl still hadn't found her hips but she had stolen someone's shirt.
Southern Gent was still going after many hours under the tyranny of booze, song and women.
And pretty girls were there too.
I'm not sure how long I stayed. Dennis reports that the party went on until five in the morning. Youngna reports she captured me saying incriminating things on her dangerous ipod voice recorder. When we left the city was blanketed with snow and quiet. At home I slept the sleep that only the the Gods of Saturday night can grant you.
(Apologies to TeenDrama, from whom I totally stole this style of blog. Consider it a tribute in gratitude for a great Saturday night.)
