Down The Rabbit Hole
Ho. Lee. Shit. Last night was one for the record books. I mean, it’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m barely moving…
It started innocently enough. I stopped into work for a minute, ate a salad in Bryant Park in the sunshine, then went to Lord of the Rings (very very long). My brother came over after work for a guitar lesson, beers and pizza. And then they descended, like locusts. Well-dressed, well coiffed locusts.
My buddy James — he of the Kauai wedding last summer — was in town from L.A. He came over around ten over with his wife and some friends (including an 18-year-old nephew), had a few martinis, then it was my duty to give them a Big New York City Night. I mean, you know me: I don’t really do Big New York City Nights. So I took ’em to the local vaguely hip watering hole, Fusion, where we continued to get sloppy. At some point, we fell down the rabbit hole…
James got his head split open when his wife kicked in the bathroom door. We met a baker named Bruce. The bartender was hammered. There was flashing. Surreal.
And that was all before someone said, “Let’s go to Scores!”
Now, you gotta’ know: I have never been to a strip club. It just seems sad, not to mention some pretty f*cked up gender politics. But I was wasted, swept up in the moment, and game for an adventure. So I went.
For fifteen minutes.
I said no thanks to the table up front. I figured women would be shakin’ stuff at me, and I was not about to let that happen. So I retreated to the darkest corner of the bar, and ordered four drinks. “That’ll be $70 please,” the bartender (so not wasted) said. And I actually laughed out loud. Then the woman next to me, a brunette in some strappy little number, said, “Hi ya’ handsome.” And I was like, “I’m outa’ here.”
And I was. I didn’t even say good-bye to anyone. I just stumbled out, poured myself into a blurry yellow cab, slurred my address, and chalked one up to poor judgment. Guess that’s how we learn.
But I’m pretty sure the 18-year-old nephew had the night of his life.