I spent most of Monday moaning in agony and clutching my head. When the DTs finally subsided, I went into the city to run some errands and go to a cocktail party (because the name of the game is FREE, people). At the Sprint store on 5th and 23rd, where I waited for an hour hoping that the corporate stooges at customer service wouldn’t ask me why my cellphone had stopped working (Hint: hairspray), I found myself standing behind this guy. He smiled at me a couple of times, perhaps to say “Yes, I’m *that* guy.” Both he and his tall, pretty girlfriend had broken Sprint phones. He clung to her like a tornado was approaching and she was made of rebar.

It’s much more fun to spot minor celebrities than major ones, no? A few weeks ago I was at a party and noticed one of the cocktail waiters was the guy who licked the door handle in the Jetta commercial.

See, now *that* takes skill.

And speaking of skill: It takes skill to fall down the same flight of stairs twice (originally, I thought it was only once, but N was nice enough to remind me I went two rounds ass-over-teakettle, teakettle winning both times), which was what happens when I go here on Sunday night. My fate was sealed after my second (or third?) fruity drink served as a winking paean to Trader Vic’s, (which incidentally was where my parents went on their first date*) and I turned to my friend B at 6:30 and said, “I think I’m going to call in sick tomorrow.” Down the hatch!**

At different points in my Journey to the End of Night, I found myself laughing heartily (with my head resting on the cool, cool marble stair, my limbs akimbo) and sobbing hysterically (with my head resting on the cool, cool railing of the fishing pier at Gantry Park, so moved was I by how “happy” I was) and falling dead asleep without brushing my slowly-dissolving teeth. Wheeeee!

What I don’t understand is how N and I went drink-for-drink, yet he remained remarkably sober. He is not, apparently, a girl-drink drunk. God bless him and his neverending admiration of my Sad Clown antics.

Anyhow. Enough of this Sunset Boulevard action.

I did not go to bed before 2 am this entire weekend, which is approximately 3 and a half hours later than my usual bedtime. Highlights of Friday night included 3 am pork tortas and Tres Leches Cake at Grand Morelos and returning from said meal to discover that an enterprising homeless man named Shorty had washed and waxed my car.

Pressing on. On Saturday I went over to PS1 in the day and then went to the Hook in Red Hook to see some, hmm… bands. There was this one band who sounded like they didn’t know how to play their instruments and seemed genuinely on the verge of tears when their guitarist broke a string. (“Dude, this sucks.”) They were from Milwaukee.

Then a band called The Real Losers got onstage, told us all we sucked, and that NYC was the shittiest town they’d ever been to, and promptly left the stage. From what I could glean from the two songs they did play, they were marginally more promising than the Milwaukee Dudes. The lead singer had an interesting shirt on.

Then The Little Killers got onstage. Reeves is right: Their bassist is a hottie.

The sound techs at the Hook need help, btw. It was like hearing music underwater all night.

Finally, more evidence that the lameness of one’s band name is directly proportional to one’s musical chops: The Riverboat Gamblers took to the stage, all cute and tall*** and lanky in tight jeans and jumping about and genuinely putting on a good show. Even though I fell asleep for about ten minutes of their set, I still think they were the highlight of the evening.

The unfortunate thing about Red Hook is that there’s no place to get Sparks at 1 am. (Or at any time, I’d reckon.) (Incidentally, I only drink it for the sterilizing agents.) So we headed home, where I slept the sleep of innocents, not knowing what Sunday held in store.

*My mother got so drunk that she passed out on her couch while my father was talking to her. Sound familiar?
**I can’t tell you how many times in Savannah I saw a man dragging his near-unconscious date down the street at night, offering by way of abrupt explanation as they passed, “She had one-uh them frozen drinks.” OK, pal.
***The first indication that they were from Texas.

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