Punch, kick, or kiss.
Although I agree with Wayne—a blow-by-blow account of my life isn’t what I endeavor to do with this thing—I’ll also recap the weekend. My flight was delayed on Friday night, so I didn’t get to Newark until 12:30 in the morning. This was ok by me. In all honesty, I wasn’t feeling all that pumped about getting trashed on Friday night because that’s essentially what I did on Thursday night. Two nights in a row are a rarity for me now. I pin this on Claire, who has sapped my will to live my life as the 25-ish alcoholic that I was when she first met me. So I was not psyched. In addition, I hate flying alone. Flying is tedious. Flying is also a somber experience for me because I’m very paranoid about meeting my untimely demise in the company of strangers. But the delay, in combination with the 2 hour flight, gave me the opportunity to read the bulk of War Trash, which I strongly recommend.
I arrive at Newark and check my voicemail. Mark, who’s rapidly becoming my favorite boozehound for reasons that will follow later, left a voicemail: “Hey . . . Gary. Where the fuck are you? I’m . . . so wasted.” Much laughing in the background, and I immediately knew that Friday night would be a “let’s shorten our life expectancy” kind of night. I’m not in the mood to figure out the NJ transit, so I take a cab. This was a bad move on my part, and it never amazes me how quickly cabbies can discern that I’m habitually guilty of massively overpaying their fraudulent asses. But that is ok because I’m rich.
Upon my arrival, I’m greeted with a situation that’s a rarity for me—everyone seems to be very drunk, except for me. Wayne immediately hugs me. Shots are poured. Having subconsciously selected the big boy shot glass as my weapon of choice and because Christine is an appropriately zealous shot-pourer, I find myself realizing within a half-hour of my arrival that I’m really, really drunk. This sensation is one of my favorite things. At first, you’re coasting along. Things are nice, warm, and fuzzy. You smile a lot, most of the time for a good reason, but sometimes just because. That’s a Level 1 buzz. Then comes the realization that you’re senselessly drunk and have somehow leap-frogged your way to Level gazillion. Your id has seized control of your life and has no immediate plans to relinquish its authority to what remains of your reason. Whenever this happens, I like to play a mental game with myself that I call punch, kick, or kiss. I look at my male friends and decide whether it would be appropriate to punch, kick, or kiss them. If I’m drunk enough, all three options appear to be not only plausible, but also equally pleasurable. This makes me happy because then I know that I’m ready to go carpe diem on the world.
The rest of the night is very fun. I like to drink. I like to dance. I wake up with a pretty bad headache, but it subsides after a shower. After a Friday night of punch, kick, or kiss dimensions, Saturday is a pretty big let down. The highlight of the night was Mark, who is the new king of drinking because he’s ridiculously funny when he’s buzzed. Mark and friends go to a DVD store next to the bar that we’re at, because some of the DVDs have boobies in them. When Mark returns, he says to me, “They have some really fucked up shit in there. I mean, literally. Fucked up shit. Really fucked up shit. Literally fucked up shit.” I figure out that there’s a cleveland steamer section of the dvd library. Mark continues: “Man. That shit made me nauseous. Fucked up shit. I almost puked on myself.” This, of course, was funnier in person. I now know what to get Mark for his birthday. Mark went on that night to take us down in a poker tournament, where he experienced much success with his new, “I re-raise you all in, bitch” style of play. Sunday is spent flying and recuperating. Not a bad weekend.
I arrive at Newark and check my voicemail. Mark, who’s rapidly becoming my favorite boozehound for reasons that will follow later, left a voicemail: “Hey . . . Gary. Where the fuck are you? I’m . . . so wasted.” Much laughing in the background, and I immediately knew that Friday night would be a “let’s shorten our life expectancy” kind of night. I’m not in the mood to figure out the NJ transit, so I take a cab. This was a bad move on my part, and it never amazes me how quickly cabbies can discern that I’m habitually guilty of massively overpaying their fraudulent asses. But that is ok because I’m rich.
Upon my arrival, I’m greeted with a situation that’s a rarity for me—everyone seems to be very drunk, except for me. Wayne immediately hugs me. Shots are poured. Having subconsciously selected the big boy shot glass as my weapon of choice and because Christine is an appropriately zealous shot-pourer, I find myself realizing within a half-hour of my arrival that I’m really, really drunk. This sensation is one of my favorite things. At first, you’re coasting along. Things are nice, warm, and fuzzy. You smile a lot, most of the time for a good reason, but sometimes just because. That’s a Level 1 buzz. Then comes the realization that you’re senselessly drunk and have somehow leap-frogged your way to Level gazillion. Your id has seized control of your life and has no immediate plans to relinquish its authority to what remains of your reason. Whenever this happens, I like to play a mental game with myself that I call punch, kick, or kiss. I look at my male friends and decide whether it would be appropriate to punch, kick, or kiss them. If I’m drunk enough, all three options appear to be not only plausible, but also equally pleasurable. This makes me happy because then I know that I’m ready to go carpe diem on the world.
The rest of the night is very fun. I like to drink. I like to dance. I wake up with a pretty bad headache, but it subsides after a shower. After a Friday night of punch, kick, or kiss dimensions, Saturday is a pretty big let down. The highlight of the night was Mark, who is the new king of drinking because he’s ridiculously funny when he’s buzzed. Mark and friends go to a DVD store next to the bar that we’re at, because some of the DVDs have boobies in them. When Mark returns, he says to me, “They have some really fucked up shit in there. I mean, literally. Fucked up shit. Really fucked up shit. Literally fucked up shit.” I figure out that there’s a cleveland steamer section of the dvd library. Mark continues: “Man. That shit made me nauseous. Fucked up shit. I almost puked on myself.” This, of course, was funnier in person. I now know what to get Mark for his birthday. Mark went on that night to take us down in a poker tournament, where he experienced much success with his new, “I re-raise you all in, bitch” style of play. Sunday is spent flying and recuperating. Not a bad weekend.
