Yesterday I woke up at 6:00am thinking I'd get a jump on the workday. It was an exercise in futility; the work wasn't ready for me. I stayed up anticipating an email that would tell me when I should expect to begin, but the email never came. Instead, at 8:00 I received notice that things would be delayed until 2:00 at the earliest, but not to worry - because there were other tasks to tend to in the meantime.
Luckily things feel into place as promised, and by the time 2:00 rolled around I'd made a significant dent in the pre-work. I was wrapping up just after 5:00, when a friend texted me inviting me to a super-hero themed party. I told her I needed to shower first, to wash off the film of filth that had sat itself atop my skin - a side-effect of working on a sunny Saturday. By the time I had showered and checked my phone, they'd left the party and relocated to a pub called The Napper Tandy. I cast my costume aside; it seemed I was to remain a mild-mannered Bruce Wayne. I got in a cab and picked up James who told me a tale of triumph that'd transpired earlier in hurling for Clare.
When we arrived at the pub we greeted our costumed comrades and celebrated. I ate a burger and far too many fries. Fries slathered in cheese and curry, others dressed with garlic and parmesan. I drank Stella; she was perfectly effervescent, gold and delicious. Andrew and I talked of great literary figures like Joyce, Wilde and Twain. To his surprise, and mine, I'd never read Hunter S. Thompson. I blame Nixon. Andrew told me about the time he had been awarded a prize by Seamus Heaney, considered by some to be one of the most significant poets of our time. We noted that Heaney, Joyce and Wilde were all Irish. Being half myself, I think I have a shot. I'll have a nobel prize in no time.
Somehow we were all outside, all seven of us piling into a cab. On the ride Andrew and I mused on The Wanker's Dilemma - is he the wanker or the wankee? The clearest illustration of the 'interdependence of opposites' that I know. We exited at Public Works to attend a block-party. When we arrived at the ticket-booth they told us entry was $30. I tried to peer behind the booth to see whether it was worth it - $30 seeming exorbitant to me - but the booth cleverly concealed the party from view. I knew we were being robbed, but I was unsure whether it was at gunpoint. The woman looked to be clutching something hidden beneath the table, seemingly pointing at me, but I couldn't tell for sure. I remembered a self-defense course I had taken suggested communication and compliance, to avoid resisting. Timidly I said, "I have my wallet in my pocket, may I reach for it?" She nodded. I removed my wallet and tossed it onto the table, slowly putting both my hands up to indicate I was unarmed.
Once we passed the booth we saw the block-party was inaptly named. 'Quarter-of-a-block-party' would've been more accurate. There was a DJ playing a milk toast brand of uninspiring house that not even he wanted to dance to. We half-assedly pretended to dance, maintaing mediocrity for as long as we could bear it. The trick for executing a seamless squiff was passed to me while we drank cider and continued to feign dancing. The squiff - a beautifully onomatopoeic expression - is not unlike a silencer on an assassin's pistol. When done correctly, a soft hissing should be heard, similar to a slowly deflating bicycle-tire. It's the only way ninjas know how to flatulate. To do so, firmly pull one butt-cheek completely aside, and fire. Use it wisely friends. Next I was bestowed a true gift. An Irish word I had never before heard used. Scutter. Also onomatopoeic, it describes the kind of dastardly defecation produced by a night of drinking and eating poorly. The kind of sound a dysfunctional locomotive might make: marked by huffing, puffing, and sputtering. I relayed a story about a time I had gone out with a girl back in New York, both of us having drank heavily and eaten Mexican before she invited me back to her place. As things became more horizontal, with a hiss the captain came over my internal-loudspeaker and informed me my stomach was about to hit a deep pocket of turbulence. As gracefully as I could, I excused myself to the bathroom - which to my exquisite dismay was in the same room, behind a thin wooden door. Without knowing it then, I had prayed for a squiff, but delivered a scutter. The sounds crashed and beat upon the door while the smell crawled under and out into the room, tattling on me. Somehow I wasn't disqualified. Maybe she was a fecalpheliac.
Soon we left the block-party and tried to gain admittance to Brick and Mortar across the street, to visit a friend who was bar-tending. The bouncer at the door refused to waive the cover charge and Bryce, unaware of our arrival, was helpless to help us. We relocated to Zeitgeist where Andrew regaled me with stories from his younger days. He told me about some pranks that had been played on him by an expert prankster. One of which involved a submission into a poetry contest wherein his friend had entered a poem under his name. Andrew had been out sick for a couple of days, and when he returned to class people seemed to whisper and point at him saying "that's him, that's the guy" as he walked through the halls. Not knowing what was going on, he headed to the cafeteria where he saw an enormous banner (which eclipsed all of the other entries) with his name and the poem 'he' had written: I am beauty, let me live.
At some point we had arrived at Danny Coyle's, but our stay there was brief. We walked to The Page, where we closed the bar. But not before we talked about the most successful male of our species: Genghis Khan. We contemplated the number of partners he must've had over the course of his reign. What a day in the life would've looked like. At some point the phrase "Concubine; concubine; concubine: I'm Genghis Khan" had farted from someone's mouth. I want that t-shirt.
Or maybe one that has "KHAAAAAAAAAANN" written above Genghis' face.
No comments:
Post a Comment