I forgot what I was trying to forget
This is my belt buckle, because I�m so completely tough and stylish, too: 
Eating alone is not my idea of cool, but Anyway Cafe is an intimate Russian eatery with charming live jazz and excellent crepes (okay, French food - I swear the joint's Russian, though). Awaiting Asit's phone call, I sipped a Sapphire and tonic while feigning an artist's-itch over my notebook. Sometimes I want to ask people if I really look like I have something important that I'm writing about. No matter: I'm sure the little tomboy in the corner was a'lacking in all mistique after she choked on some dried parsley and nearly died.
Nice place: but I felt rowdy. So did Asit.
The first order of business by my calculation was a shot of Jagermeister. It's been nine months since I had had any, and this after always having a bit in my freezer. Asit was full as a tick after his dinner, but I assured him this would ease the digestion.
We went to Mars Bar - this fabulous, ratgut, narrow, dingey den with people's markings carved deeply into the bar - and they poured a healthy, heaping shot of the black, syrup-y poison.
"Here's to you, here's to me: friends may we ever be. But should we ever disagree: FUCK YOU! Here's to me.
East and we walked to allow the food to settle and the alcohol to rise. Finally, after smoking and getting the giggles from things such as this phone-booth advert:
... I saw a breezy looking joint on Ave. A that seemed sufficient for more alcohol. The homely girl who took our order, brought us our drinks, then fixed our drinks when I told her she made them wrong (so hard to find a good mojito these days), then returned the re-mix to us was attentive to me. Asit said she dug me, but he always teases me about girls up on my jock and me being a closet-lesbian and other silly things that could ne'er come to pass.
I sat at an open window and tried to get a hi-5 from a passer-by, but everyone was so not into having fun with me. Fuck them. My next idea was to hang out of the window with a cigarette so Asit could take this picture:
Notice I'm about to lose my shit and die laughing: it's because I'm watching a scrawny little bitch wipe out as she spins a 180 and hisses I will kick you out so fast if you light that cigarette!!!.
"She's such a dyke!" I say.
Who is? Which one? um... all of them?
I suddenly recognize a queen I had met at a party in Greenpoint last November. The crowd had doubled as we panned the scenery: we were in a gay bar. Asit felt a victory as he reminded me I had picked the joint, �you�re so gay!� he triumphed.
Here's the hissing bitch with no sense of humor:
Here's Asit inside while I legitimately smoke exactly nine inches away from where I had been before:
Asit and I barely discussed it, but it was suddenly clear to us what we needed to do. He joined me for a smoke, and we walked down the street. Or, rather, we fled the scene. Get it? Silly tough girl didn't clear our tab. I've never dined and dashed (drank and dashed), but we�ll make sure and never go back.
Next we eased into Karma, a bar where you are encouraged to smoke. I sank down into a red, velvet cushion and looked to my right. There was a sheer, silk drape between me and the next couple, so I pressed in closely to this, where I could see the man on the other side noticing me, �Father, forgive me, for I have sinned,� I said within seconds of sitting down. He ordered a dozen Hail Mary�s (I actually haven�t got the foggiest idea what one of those entails, much less 12 of them) and I ordered a margarita.
This is the cool part though:
Something like apples, smooth, soft, smoky.
Next to us were three metal-head Long Islanders who were actually referencing Beavis and Butthead,
,
and they wanted to come along with us, but we discouraged that.
Back in Mars Bar suddenly I found myself invading some guy�s personal space (and that�s not the first time I�ve done that there� only I didn�t score an all-nighter like last time) while he flipped through the pages on the jukebox.
My Bloody Valentine jumped out at me, and I scoffed (apparently) that Loveless is an odd bar-cd. The shaggy, neuvo-trucker boy locked eyes with me and stated clearly that he had put that cd in the jukebox. I acquiesced (one of the sexiest things a person can ever do, by the way), and told him that�s one of my absolute favorite albums, and hence my surprise at seeing it there. He smiled and gave me one play� so I picked some Nick Cave and the Badseed�s.
Asit handed me some tequila and in seconds we slid back onto the street.
Having not smoked enough already we sped the alcohol through our veins with a jog up his fifth-floor walk-up where we raided the place. I found three-fourths of a pack of Parliaments�
Eli was still at Patio, so we let him give us the push off the precipice where we were precariously perched. I remember talking about Larry Mullen of U2.
I remember telling an actress from Chicks With Dicks that I was going to see her play next weekend.
I remember Cypress Hill was playing and I spoke at length regarding B. Real as an intellectual ganja-puffin don causin drama.
I remember dancing. Alone.
I remember calling one friend after the other, at four in the morning? (Niko, love, I swear I have no idea what sort of message I left for you, but I hope it was provocative! I remember calling, but not a word that I said, or even exactly when it was: I knew you wouldn�t mind).
Then one of Eli�s shots hit the nervous system and I was all, �Go me the way to show home��
I�m going to miss this City. This guy. These stories.
July seems to be rushing up to me, and all my time left here is slipping away.
Alright Already!!
