Crossing the Williamsburg Bridge

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I crossed the Williamsburg bridge towards the city with a tall can of Budweiser. It's really one of the most beautiful views I've ever seen. Manhattan's majesty is comparable to the vistas at any National Park.

I got to the Lower East Side, with the hunger that comes from a few glasses of wine and a 25-minute walk. I found some cheap Puerto Rican cuchifritos. Tasty. I met up with Ben inside of the bar. I couldn't tell if it was so steamy inside because of all the people or if there was a fog machine. There was a fog machine. After the standard beer-and-shot drink special, we sought the next destination on the boozy horizon.

We headed towards a a club, which did not seem in my best interest, as I was trying to maximize the party and minimize the cash transactions. We have a recession going on for God's sake. I promised Ben that I'd show him to the cuchifritos, but the shop had closed. An old man was glaring out the window, mocking us with his sweet, sweet cuchifreets. Ben settled on a Papaya. I'd been lucky enough to stay away from those things for the six months I've been living here, but he bought me a chili-cheese-dog, so I had no choice but to enjoy it. The cuisine that only a drunk could love.

Somehow by the grace of Dionysus we were informed of a party, at home in Brooklyn. We ran across Delancey, to find a cab. It literally took hours (minutes) but we found an unmarked car to take us across that bridge. The car pulled over to get directions. "There are two Meseroles! WHAT THE FUCK‽‽‽" We called HQ--anybody who hasn't left the house, and is in range of a Google map. The car kept moving. Talks of the price came up.

"Eight bucks right?"
"No papi, fifteen to cross the bridge"
"We didn't go very far, I'll give you ten"
"No"
"Cuanto cuesta, cuando me pedir en espanol?"
"It's the same, fifteen."
"Fine let us out here."

I have the very serious condition of always thinking that cab drivers are trying to exploit me. Most of the time they aren't. This time he was hustling me for like three bucks. But we'd arrived, and the party looked hoppin'. I got inside and didn't know anyone. I drank a craft beer from the fridge. I searched for a cup to pour the beer into, so nobody would yell at me for thieving. It made the most sense to go into the darkness of the rooftop. To hide from the crime I'd committed.

The roof was crowded, but I ran into someone I knew. They handed me another beer and talked to me about the Large Hardon Collider. Suckers be worried about Black Holes for nothin'. I got a call from a girl who invited me to a club in Manhattan.

"Look, I've already left the city, I don't think I'm coming back... it's not you... it's that I'm so close to home."

The beer ran out, and someone replaced it with Jack Daniels. Whiskey seems to be a drunk's favorite drink. It's not my choicest of choices, but I always give it a shot. Actually it was a mug. Some other people I knew walked through the door. If you stay at a party long enough in Brooklyn your liable know someone. They were having a 'GIRLS NIGHT OUT!' They told me abouta better party, with people I actually knew. It was in the city. "I'm not sure if I want to go" I said as I was was in the cab halfway across the Williamsburg bridge. Oy. I told them I wasn't paying on account of me 'not really wanting to go back to the city.'They'd kidnapped me! The result of a girls night out gone wrong.

It was true, I knew way more people at this party. They even had gourmet potato chips. It was like a JetBlue flight inside of a party. A girl got kicked out for pulling up another girl's skirt. Tough crowd. The night was nearing its end, I did not want to deal with getting back to Bushwick. Aah, but an angel opened her couch to a homeless (in the Borough of Manhattan) man. As we were walking back to the slumber party, the girl who had called earlier, saw me on Houston.

"I thought you said, you weren't going to leave Brooklyn."
"Uhh, yeah I ended back here under circumstances beyond my control."

These facts looked like lies to her, and she was pretty set on not having me sleep in her bed, as that's what I was hoping might happen. I later sent her the informative text:

"That is an ironic bit of coincidence. Someone tricked me into the city. I know this sounds crazy but um..."
"What ur saying is u owe me a drink, Period! Douche."

Ah man, that's what happens when you're night is guided by forces beyond your control, namely booze and adventure.

I awoke with a glorious hangover to a post-slumber party. Pavla wanted me to tell everyone about what Shawn did last night. Apparently I'd told her that he was competing in a Staten Island Salad competition. I don't remember saying this, but I guess it is drunkenly believable that a competition could exist that finds the best chef who can combine a green pepper, beets, and nacho cheese.

I spent the morning hanging 'wif my girlz.' We watched nineties music videos and they showed me a website about very cute dogs. Look these dogs were cute, but the ranking system is clearly fixed. The scale is out of eleven 'bones' but the lowest score of any dog was 10.03 bones. That doesn't seem statistically sound. THESE ELECTIONS ARE RIGGED!

The girls told me about some sort of interview between a RiotGrrl and a rocker from Arkansas. (Well that's what I thought, it turns out he's not actually from Arkansas.) We walked down towards the event, rating dogs along the way. I found at least three dogs that were only worth eight bones. I was trying to show off my newly tailored jeans, when I almost stepped on the head of a guy sleeping in the street. Oopsy (ten point eight bones.)

We got to the event, and I was not on the list. This has never has prevented me from trying to get in places (see: Latino Music Festivals)

"Josh Heller"
"There's two Sarah Heller's"
"Yeah that works."

He crossed off both Sarah Hellers. I went into the hall, made more jokes about dog bones, and waited. It was taking a while, hunger pangs were growing so I left. I feel bad that I'd hijacked the seats of two Sarah Heller, but I needed a falafel more than anything in the world.

So I set out to find the mythical Mamoun's of St. Mark's. I passionately made out with those deep-fried balls of garbanzo. The tahini danced with my taste buds, and I was in sheer ecstasy. I walked out of the restaurant in a sublime daze. Even in the glory of this hangover, things seemed perfect.

I sauntered around the East Village. A man asked me if I knew where the Emergency Food Shelter was. I didn't know. I also didn't know that I looked like one a person who would know where one of those places were. Did I really look (boroughwide) homeless? I sat on a bench, pondered the evening, and watched a man dressed as a tree giving an interview to reporters. A fine fifteen hours, I must say.

New York's slogan should be: "New York City, lot's of different stuff happens here, I guess."

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