So I have avoided trying to write on the blog for a few reasons. I’m not a very good storyteller or writer, and either too lazy, or don’t have a story good enough to share with the world. But as I sit here on the plane from Phoenix to Santa Barbara, I am trying to stay awake because I don’t want to stink up the plane because we all know what happens when we fall asleep after eating Burger King. Also there is this cunt of a lady sitting next to me and I am really hoping to offend her with the tales I am about to tell of my adventurous and incriminating New Years extravaganza from last night.
Rarely does a day occur where everything just happens to fall into place at precisely the right time and the right place consistently from the moment I open my eyes to the moment I drunkenly close them. Yesterday just happens to be one of those days. I started off the day with a lovely crossfit workout, in which the only thing anyone needs to know about it is that after about 6 minutes and 25 seconds I was clutching to the garbage can projectile vomiting from a mix of way too much midnight pasta and rowing too hard on the silly 2K rowing machine. This would not be considered a proud moment by most, but it fed to my masochistic tendencies, so all was well.
The next stop on this delightful day was to get my tickets for the Steve Angello concert where lots of fist pumping was to take place. Rather uneventful except for 3 minutes of observing an old white man rapping to Jay Z and 50 cent in his car in the parking lot of a Best Buy. I’ll post the video below for everyone’s entertainment.
I had been a bit nervous at first that my night was going to be rather uneventful. Most of my friends had either gone back to school or were staying local because they didn’t want to spend money in good old New York City. Also, the several connections I had for a little bit of serotonin manipulation medications had fallen through (I’ll let you take a gander as to what those may be). I had never been to a rave where I was just drunk. So I decided to compensate by purchasing 8 redlines for myself and some Vodka as a chaser. Around 6 o’clock, DJ, my partner in crime this summer in Spain had arrived with a lovely ginger named Amy. DJ hadn’t told me that Amy was a ginger, so the second I met her, I knew that the Devil would be following me tonight. And I couldn’t have been more excited. New Years Eve was about to start.
We started off the night, a seemingly random set of 3 very different individuals who would later become known as the trifecta of ginger love, with a nice Italian meal in midtown. Enjoying a delightful plate of Penne Vodka, I decided it was an appropriate time to open up and let Amy know a little bit about myself. The bond that was to be formed was unmistakable as I went through my childhood sexual innuendos and the stories of getting blown publicly on airplanes or in front of my fraternity brothers. I don’t think the couples sitting on either side of our table appreciated my life experiences or DJ’s, but Damien Triston, coach of the B. University basketball team seemed to. Or he enjoyed Amy’s fire breathing hair. So he followed her to the bathroom, asked if the carpet matched the pubes, and proceeded to give her his number. And I proceeded to spend the night flirting with him on my phone because Amy left her phone at home and I always wanted to flirt with a C-list celebrity.
After the 3-person New Years Eve banquet, the team started the walk of pre-shame to the Roseland Ballroom. Halfway there, we realized that we were carrying 6 redlines, a 5th of vodka, and my favorite, an airtight zip-lock bag holding an addy. So we obviously took a seat on 5th Ave and consumed it all, save one redline that DJ dropped and then pissed on. Those who know me wouldn’t be surprised if I would have picked up my baby. Unfortunately, Amy, the Ginger, would have looked at me like I was a nut. Probably would have been turned on a bit as well.
Let me tell you that crossing Manhattan on a night such as tonight is no easy task. But Derek and DJ got it done nonetheless. All it took was DJ asking a few cops if they would bone a ginger, and almost fighting some white hood rat because he probably said he did, as well as me flashing the “get out of jail free” card that a police friend gave me, to do it. They passed us off cop to cop, bringing us behind some fenced off areas of Time Square and cut our drunken walking time from 45 minutes to about 15 and found out that Italian police officers believe that everyone on the Jersey Shore were a disgrace to his people and his peoples’ history. The one downside was that we were stuck in line at the club instead of stuck in the middle of Time Square when the clock stuck midnight. At least I wasn’t surrounded by guys and girls, guys and guys, and girls and girls sucking face.
Once we were in the club it was only a matter of checking our coats before we could let the party begin. That was why DJ must have gotten mad at us for “disrespecting the coat girls by just throwing our coats at them,” and threw the coat girl $40 while Amy and I had politely handed her our coats.
I just have to give a quick shout out to An., a homie I cruised to Ibiza with for a European, serotonin-manipulation kind of weekend. I randomly ran into his Californian ass on the staircase and had a lovely 2-minute reunion. Then Amy, DJ, and I snuck into the upstairs section to avoid paying an extra $90 per person. I am pretty sure I asked DJ how we could sneak into the VIP section up there, because right after I said something to him, he flipped over the railing that separated it from us and stuck a beautiful landing on his back and kicked over a table with some drinks on it. Thinking we got away with the night a lot more cheaply, we ended up spending a bit more than we had hoped to. Though no law enforcement agency can uphold this in a court of law due to the level of our intoxication, I am 95% sure my buddy threw a chaser bottle into the crowd. Off the balcony. From the second floor. Into the crowd. Luckily, it only grazed a kid’s head and he kept partying with only a little blood leaking out. He would have thrown the bottle of vodka over as well if I hadn’t turned around and caught him in the middle of pouring it out over the crowd. DJ for the last time, you are not a 5 foot Asian in Vegas spraying two bottles of Crystal over a sexy crowd! I do think that he managed to throw his cell phone over the balcony though.
At some point in the night Amy and I lost DJ. We looked for him for about an hour but couldn’t find him (he left with a very nice gentleman and possibly a few girls). So Amy and I head to the C-List’s party. On the way I realize is 6AM and I was leaving for California in a few hours and didn’t want to be late for my plane. So we tell a cab driver that we got robbed and catch a free ride to Grand Central. Not the most moral of lies I have ever told.
I’ve never seen so many kids passed out in the middle of Grand Central. I do feel bad for my buddy Rob, who was walking to the train in his pajamas because he got kicked out of his hotel and wasn’t allowed back in to get his stuff. And I do want to thank the MTA for not waking any of the kids up who were passed out. That literally means everyone on the train. Fortunately for us, DJ had remembered my home address and the train line out of Manhattan. If he had not remembered, then there would have no way for him to get back to my town, his car, and his orange thing. Turns out he spent $450 on a hotel room and passed out in the staircase before he made it to the room. 3 hours later he was back at my house and we were all safe.
God my fucking head hurts.
1 comment:
Sounds like an epic new years
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