And so it goes. Except this time I make an effort. I plan man-dates for tonight and the next three nights, including open bars for Thurs & Fri night. My friend Matt bails on tonight but he's got to be up early, after all who goes out on a Wed night? My cousin is still up in the air.
I went to Charleston in Wburg to see Kevin Colden's band but didn't realize there was a cover, and it seems they just never have the free pizza at night. Scratch that place off the list, forever. I took out the $60 I have left in my account and got a $4 Yuengling and left no tip. $56 after downing the beer and heading out.
I hit up the Commodore, my new fav hipsteriffic spot, and of course I hate everyone, but I hate everyone everywhere, so no surprise there. I get a $3 Schlitz and this time leave a dollar tip. I want to be accepted at this spot, despite loathing the clientele. The 'try-too-hards' and the has-beens trying to impress each other. At least the food is good here.
Not that I've eaten in the last 24 hours, except a bagel from Starbucks along with a giant iced coffee. Fuck it, some days food just gets in the way of booze. Tonight is one of those days, or whatever. But if I did have more cash I'd eat a goddamn burger here with the most awesome fries ever. But I've got 36 hours until I have cash and can eat like a normal human.
In the meantime, let's hate on these fuckfaces. Trucker hats are shit and you should be shot. If you have a mustache tattoo on the inside of your finger, I will chop that shit off with a meat cleaver (esp. if you're a girl). Fake moustaches are so fucking old and it was fucking stupid to begin with. Please get over it before I kill again!
I've been hungry and broke too long. You know how I know? I spy a plate of fries that are barely touched over there, the fatasses who ordered them left them behind. I would eat that shit in a second. Also, I drink drinks left lying about. Around me do not leave your drink unattended. I'll be all over that shit like the high school dropout on your prom date.
Whatever that means. I'm kind of pissed (and lashing out) that I tested who I write like and my two favorite/latest chapters of Tower of Brahma came back Dan Brown. I did get Chuck Palaniuk with one of these blog posts so that's a small comfort. I guess I've got to try and get edgier or wordier or less fucking formulaic. Dan fucking Brown? He's the most functional conveyer of information I've read but he's not a fucking writer of merit.
Whatever. I'll just drink my cheap ass beer and watch 60's pop luchadore movies, where a wrestling match is intercut with absurd scenes of some sort of trepaning/brain surgery. I realize I haven't had a cigarette in about 24 hours and it feels good, but damn do I want one. I feel fucking cheated. This old luchadore movie is pixellating with DVD fail, not scratching out into fuzz like a VHS tape would. The old 80's TV set, the wood panelling, the frosted mirror behind the bar...they mean nothing. NOTHING!
HOLY SHIT THAT'S BRAINS! Seriously, pulsating on the goddamn screen. Brains. The wrestling match freeze frames into some sort of bizarre humping motion and sticks like that for minute after minute. Oh, hold up, I have a text. It's Matt, asking if I'm hitting up the two open bars tomorrow, fuck yeah I am.
One's in Park Slope, put on by Toyota as a pre-Siren Festival event, I feel it will suck. But a quick ride on the G train will get us over to Bed Stuy area where there's a 2 hour Colt 45 open bar hosted by Vice. That's the one to hit, fuck this Park Slope Toyota bullshit. Get what we can from there, raid that spot like fucking viking-pirates and charge forth.
God, the fucking asshole I couldn't stand at the other end of the bar is now sitting next to me. Obviously wasted, thinks he's a rockstar, needs a knife to the neck. At least the little drunk cunt he came in with isn't here to terrorize my personal space. Okay, just spied another DON'T. Bandanas worn backwards with the knot up front. Stupid. They should only be worn as do-rags or whatever you idiots call them. 90's hippy style.
Fuck, I love the smell of fresh mint. I want a bad ass mojito up in this piece. Too bad they're like...8 fucking dollars? Kiss my ass Commodore. Ooh, Commodore, like the Commodore 64. That was my jam, back when life was simple and I was happy and basically mindless. What the fuck happened between then and now? Nothing but god awful shit, with a handful of adventure.
I really should eat something. And probably get a cigarette from someone. Hold up, cute girl alert. Fuck! The guy next to me, aging shithead hipster/rocker, ordered fucking fried chicken and biscuits. I might die right now. Does anything smell as good as fried fucking chicken? NO, IT FUCKING DOES NOT!
He tries and hits on the waittress, who's a vegetarian (STRIKE!) and he waves dead flesh at her in some vain attempt to impress her? God knows. But it still smells good. I may kill him and take it, run screaming through chicken meat into the streets of Williamsburg, a fresh kill notched on my belt.
Oh, so the waittress is proving the Clark Kent secret identity bag. Her absurd glasses actually seem to fully obscure any details of what she really looks like. Weird. I bet with that hair down and in something other than an ill-fitting vintage dress, I might not know who the fuck she was.
More BRAINS! A Lite Brite. A soldering gun. Wtf is this movie?! Fuck this, I'm out. Off to Alligator, see if Rick's still there and maybe get some pizza. Before I die.
Alligator Lounge. Two free pizzas with one beer (some guy gave me his extra ticket), watching some really bad Buck Hunter action with two guys who asked me about the game, a few bad text messages. Shit. My cousin bailed on me. No surprise there. Everyone usually does. I'm fucking pathetic. Alone every night I go out.
I'm going to have to go over into Manhattan and then up into Harlem now to sleep. The idea of that brings tears to my eyes. Makes me think of other sad shit. I want a cigarette. I want drugs. I want anything that makes this not feel so fucking real. That distances me from it so it's an odd anecdote. Just keep writing you lame ass fuck.
K
Your writing is so painfully real and instinctive and the images evoked by the shit and emotions in this post are breathtaking. I feel incompetent as a writer now which makes me want to write more and smarter and wittier. Don't you dare stop. I'll find you and make you write. You have to finish your book, it's an obligation. K. Bye.
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