June 24th, 2002. Monday
In the last entry, I wrote a little bit about St. Louis Cardinals pitcher Darryl Kile, and how he threw like a girl. He died in his sleep on Friday night. He was 33. They say it was "natural causes." How can someone not born in, say, 2000 B.C. die of natural causes at the age of 33? The whole thing is terribly sad.
Friday was not a fun day at work. Again, the girl who does the lion's share of the work was out on Friday, and I got to work rather late, so I had quite a bit of catching up to do on my giant pile of work, the last of which I am only finishing now. Well, not now. I'm writing this right now. Anyway, after work, and after an unsatisfying dinner of Chef Boyardee ravioli, I strolled down to Great Lakes. I had to find a drink for another drink review. I spoke with Jen earlier in the day, and she sounded like she was having a shitty day, and I was not in the best of moods myself, so I asked her if she wanted to meet me down at Great Lakes and get totally shit-housed. She was amenable to that.
So we got down there around eight o'clock. I spent a lot of time at the bar by myself, as I arrived a while before Jen, and since she had to excuse herself for a lengthy telephone call with a friend in need. Then we got some food from Bonnies, a nice little restaurant a few feet down the street. And we kept drinking. For some reason I couldn't decided on a drink, and ordered about four different drinks. The bartender took exception to this, and felt obligated to shit on me. Though he did buy me two drinks. Later in the evening, Jed, Dylan, Kelly, and Dylan's visiting sister joined us. Conversations at that point are sketchy. The only thing I really remember is someone trying to explain to Kelly how to do her tequila shot. I said "Did you go to college!?" not believing that she didn't know how to do the shot. Even more surprising was how much she actually enjoyed it. Just watching people do that makes me want to throw up. Though the Jagermeister I had instead wasn't too good either. I had first thought about bourbon, but as soon as I said "bourbon" out loud, my mouth began producing that pre-vomit saliva. For some reason the Jager sounded better. Though it tasted like fermented shit.
So Jen and I decided to go to another bar at some point, probably around 1:30 or so. We walked into Loki, looked around, chuckled, and got the hell out of there. That place is really terrible. So we walked down to Bar Reis, which also looked quite terrible. Finally we settled on the Gate, which is popular during these months for its outdoor seating. There, we ran into Susannah, and her roommate Erica. Erica is, I think, actually British citizen. I often forget, though she constantly reminds us, particularly since the World Cup started, and she went on a little rant about "the fucking Argies." When we ran into her at the bar, she had a little makeshift Cross of St. George on her right arm, reminding me again that it she had British ties, and that England recently had a World Cup game. I reminded her that England loss, and further fueled her fury by adding that their one goal against Brazil was a gift by a lazy Brazilian defender. She didn't like that. I enjoy egging her on. I was also very drunk. While we were still at Great Lakes, I kept gesturing to my glass, and telling Jen "You know what's right here?" while gesturing to the bottom of the glass. "My 'A-game'." I was convinced that once I had consumed that last bit of that particular drink, I would be a social dynamo. What really happened was that I was almost unable to keep my eyes open. I really had to force down half the drink Jen got me at the Gate. The only other thing I really remember was Susannah telling us about some awful experience with some guy that evening. And she mentioned this guys "dead-eyed friend." I'm like "What?" and she said this guy with a dead-eye, all white and weird and contorted. I'm like "What?" She said "He's still here. He's outside. He has a black tank-top on." So I go investigate, as we were sitting right by the door to the porch, and I've barely turned around when I see this dead-eyed freak. I quickly turned around and let out a little scream.
Jen and I had quite a drunk walk home. We passed this couple, half of which was an amazingly cute girl, who were stopped along the sidewalk. As we walked past them, the guy said to us "The fact that you guys are able to walk straight says quite a but about your evening!" I replied "The fact that you think we're walking straight says quite a bit about your evening." We walked a little while more, then I sat down. I would've been happy sitting there for a while, and maybe taking a little nap. Somehow I got home, and somehow I managed to fix myself a large bowl of pasta before going to bed. Not the best choice I ever made.
On Saturday, I had made plans to go to the Coney Island Mermaid Parade with two separate groups of people. I woke up late, though I felt mysteriously ok. I'd missed a call from Jen K., and I didn't hear from upstairs neighbor Rachel, so I just didn't go. Instead, I sat with Jen in Prospect Park for a while, lying in the sun, tossing the frisbee, and basically enjoying a nice day outdoors. Jed came up after a while as well and we chucked the bee after Jen left.
In the evening, Jed and I took a cab into the city to see Dylan's show at the Upright Citizens' Brigade theatre on 22nd st. The show itself was pretty entertaining. The funniest bit was a videotaped segment where a petition was handed to teenagers that asked for their support in revoking the voting rights of teenagers. Some great reactions. After the show, we went to a bar down the street where a lot of the theatre people hang out after the shows. It was pretty much sausage-fest Saturday, and a lot of weird dudes and patronizing bartenders. So we didn't like it too much. After a beer, Jed and I took a cab to Great Lakes for a few drinks. Nothing makes me appreciate Brooklyn bars like Manhattan bars. I do like knowing a bar in just about every neighborhood south of 20th st. in Manhattan, but there are probably only a handful in the city that I would say I legitimately enjoy.
Sunday, I spent another long afternoon in the parking, running around barefoot and throwing the frisbee with Jed. There were some troublesome patches of dog poop, one of which Jed unfortunately discovered by stepping in. But a nice, pleasantly warm day nonetheless.
In the evening, I met up with Rodzilla on Broadway and Houston Street for the evening meal. We decided on a little French restaurant that we had passed last month on our way somewhere else. Unfortunately, though at the time we said we should make a note of where it was, we couldn't remember. So we had our standard half-hour of walking around lost time, finally finding it on Prince and Elizabeth Streets. The inside is long and narrow, and when we went in the cook told us most people were sitting out in the garden. The "most people" and "garden" led us to believe that we'd go into this expansive, beautiful garden area. What we found were three parties dining in a 15x15, at the largest, walled in area. There was a small little fountain attached to the wall, and white pebbles on the ground, and a vine here or there. One vine kept getting caught in my spiky hair. I like to humor illusions when presented with them, but Rodzilla is always quick to offer sentiments like "I wouldn't exactly call this a garden!" It's the same when we're watching movies. I try to let obviously terrible moments pass, but she'll always bring the wrecking ball after the movie. Anyway, the atmosphere eventually grew on us, and we had a splendid meal. It was a bit pricey, but we didn't even discuss that until the check came. I ordered the pork sausage, which was pleasantly un-sausage like. When it came, it came with a little salad and a little cup of mustard, which I thought was a dijon mustard dressing for the salad. I was remarking to Rodzilla about her making that mustard dressing and spreading it all over my salad, when she said "Um, I think that's just regular mustard. For the sausage." I hate being excited-but-wrong guy. Particularly in front of Rodzilla. Very embarrassing. I felt very uncouth. She just thought it was hilarious.
At the table across the room in the other corner from us sat a couple, and after a few glances over I noticed that the bearded gentleman sitting there was the actor Adam Goldberg, who you may remember from such films as Dazed and Confused, Saving Private Ryan, and A Beautiful Mind. He also played Chanlder's roommate on friends. It was weird, because when Jed and I were riding home on Saturday, we passed by the club Moomba, and I had remarked to Jed about the one time I was there I happened to Adam Goldberg and the rest see the cast of the short live TV show The $treet, which had just been canceled. And then there he was. I overheard snippets of his conversation, stuff like "I'm not saying I want to be Pablo Picasso and cut off my ear, but..." and saying something about artistic goals and limits and whatnot. Rodzilla didn't the girl he was with suited him. She was sort of provincial. Not that he was dressed to the nines or anything. If we hadn't known who he was, I think they would've have been just fine.
Anyway, I was in a pretty shitty mood before going to dinner, and the meal ended up being just what I needed. Quiet, dark, and secluded. A bottle of wine and a nice meal. I appreciated the fact that we sat there for over two hours and they didn't try to rush us out of there, and didn't bring us the check until we asked for it. We will be going again. If only so Rodzilla can buy me a meal, since I paid for dinner last night. She figured it'd look bad if we split the bill. I don't know why she can still talk me into just about anything. Though her entry says as much. Also, if events hold true to form, the meal that she says she will buy will somehow end up being free, or drastically discounted.Lastly, my brother Geoff celebrates his 24th birthday today, on the 24th. What this means to me, is that I feel even older now. But a happy birthday to him.
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