To whoever barfed in my subway station this morning:
I want to salute you for being you. Thank you. You are a winner. You are the triumphant champion of Thursday night raging. I can tell you had a lovely night.
Here is how I think it went down: It started with happy hour. I find that his is how most Thursday night ragings start. How can anyone resist a 2-for-1? A two-for! Everyone loves a bargain, especially you. How about 2 for $6 special on drafts? How can anyone resist half off martinis? I don’t even drink martinis, but if it’s half off, I’m sure as hell going to drink the shit out of one. Or what about the $5 can of Tecate + tequila? Tecate is not a good beer. And tequila is not a good liquor, for the most part. But together they make even the saddest hour a most happy occasion. So it started there. At a bar, after work. Co-workers came. Then friends came. And then suddenly it is only 7 o’clock post meridian. You are having a very good time, but there’s a problem.
You are hungry.
This is where members of the group split off. But not you. You do not quit. You are no fucking quitter. You are a champion. You are the conqueror. You are a barbarian, a machine, a terminator, a killer. You are, in some ways, every role Arnold Schwarzenegger ever played, except for the kindergarten cop.
You decide you are going to eat the living shit out of dinner. You and friends decide on a place. Someone says, I know this Italian place. It is close. Close is good. You go. You are seated right away because its only 7:30. That is when the wine portion of the evening begins. You get the cheapest, most drinkable merlot. Cheers, clink, etc. You decide to order the spaghetti bolognese. Why not? You deserve it. It has been one hell of a week, even though, technically, it is not over. But first, another bottle for the table. You may or may not spill on your shirt. If you’re me, you probably spill on your shirt. But you’re not me. You are a person who is eating spaghetti bolognese. Without the salad though. Because salad is an unnecessary part of Thursday night raging. Salad is for civilized Saturday night dates with a lady and/or gentleman friend. Fuck salad anyway.
But then, another bottle of wine. At this point, if you are keeping track, you are on the third bottle for the table. But, you know, there are maybe five of you, so it’s not that big of a deal, right? Also you’re eating so that soaks it all up, so it doesn’t count. Right? Yeah, no it doesn’t count.
Dinner is over, and you, to be honest, have maybe a little rager going on in your brainspace. You are having a very interesting and awesome time with this drinkable merlot. Or now maybe it’s a granache. Whatever, it’s red. It’s on your shirt.
Ok how about ONE MORE drink? You know because it’s not even 9 o’clock yet. Let’s kick it at this other bar. I know a place. Now this bar is crowded. For some reason there are Australians in this bar. You are talking to an Australian. You decide to buy the Australian a drink, and also one for yourself. Not because you want to make pants sandwich with this Australian, but because the Australian is a garrulous and friendly kind of person. You decide on whiskey because, why not? You’re certainly not going to order Foster’s. They don’t have that crap here. It’s Tecate or whiskey. Again with the Tecate. Not a good beer. Later you order it anyway even though it is no longer the hour of happiness and the special is not in affect. This is because you thought the special was in affect.
Now it is official. You are drunk. You are not pissing on yourself or anything, but you realize, you know what? I’m an adult person. I have a good job, I’m a responsible person. I should probably go home. Do I cab it? Do I take the subway? Well, it’s only 11 o’clock. I should save money. This is what you are thinking. Money should be saved. Cabs are a luxury for Saturday night. This is Thursday, fuckers. Subway it is. Wait, is the C train running?
You walk down the stairs, and then. Well, you know how it went down. You feel something. A little rumble in the Bronx as they say, except you are in Manhattan. Funny how that works. And now you do the sway, that’s like the move where you are listening to Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer” in your private brain and really feeling it. Well it might be a Strokes song though. Should I sit down on the steps just for a second? NO, no the steps are gross. Haven’t been cleaned since 1995.
Wait…wait…something…is wrong.
Sploosh.
And then a pause. I think I feel better.
Sploosh.
You think, maybe a cab is in order.
So that is what you do. You don’t sploosh in the cab though. It is some kind of Jesus baby miracle.
You get home. Then you fall asleep, with your shoes on. Lights are also on. Pants most definitely on, though maybe it’s a little unbuttoned. Glasses somewhere. Dunno where. Phone somewhere too, most likely in the cab. Or in the bar with the Australians.
Then the next morning, a person goes down the subway, running to the train that is pulling into the station. And perhaps this person steps in your spaghetti bolognese.
This person may or may not be me, Annie Choi.
Congratulations, friend. You have kicked the living shit out of Thursday night. You deserve an award. I salute you.