Date: 14 Jan 96

(Yet another drunken weekend tale from me. All typos complimentz of my pounding skull.)

Cast of Characterz

[Ian]: president of bway.net
[Joel]: drunkard/writer (same thing)
[Sidewalk]: just keep reading...
[Vodka]: the drink from hell

I was assaulted last night...by a mean patch of New York City ice. I was out drinking way too much (what a surprise) with my pal Ian, who has an affinity for vodka martinis, and wound up injured on the icy sidewalk, swearing loudly between bursts of my own laughter at the predicament.

Our evening began with my pre-drinking several beers and checking the activities of this here newsgroup. While drinking and reading, I received a piece of e-mail from Ian that read something along the lines of, "Hang up now and call me." I dropped the connection and called Ian, who informed me that he was in the mood to make good my offer of drinking the winter's chill away. He had picked up a bar tab a few days previous, since I was financially challenged (aka broke) at the time. Fortunately, my credit is good with him.

We decided to meet at the Opium Den (again) over by CBGBs at 12:30, and see where the evening would take us. I hadn't navigated the horrible ice while really drunk in a long time (okay, 48 hours), so I felt up to the challenge. I finished the tasty beer I was drinking and set out. I should have known better (yeah, right) than to show up at the bar already drunk, but little did I care. Somehow, I made it there without any problems, except for the shirtless, homeless asshole who wouldn't leave me alone when I told him to eat shit after he bugged me for money. After I called him an Asshuffer and informed him that I might like a victim on which to go ballistic, he subsided and turned his intentions towards some Eurotrash tourists who were spitting Germanic-sounding slang in all directions.

I entered the bar, sat down and ordered a beer. Ian wasn't there yet, but I knew he was en route. Ten minutes and two beers later, he entered the bar and joined me. He ordered vodka martinis for the both of us and I could sense that those drinks were the proverbial beginning of the end for me. I was right. Things got weird (and drunken) from there.

We drank several rounds at the Opium Den and headed over to some other bar whose name escapes me at the moment. There we drank even more and got hungry. So we stumbled and slid to a nearby pizza place and stuffed a couple of slices down our throats. I would have preferred some Chino Latino from downstairs, but we were way too far off (three streets) for that. Our appetites sated and fuel reserves back up to normal, we sought the next bar.

Three of Cups was the next stop. Inside, it was way crowded, but Ian forced yet another vodka martini into my hand, so I wasn't all that unhappy. I don't recall anything out of the ordinary happening there, except that I was about to break down the bathroom door when two chicks went in there at the same time to either lez off and/or snort coke and stayed for a long time. They eventually emerged and freed up the bathroom for me. The toilet was making strange noises, so I pissed in the sink, just to be safe.

We continued drinking (beer, this time) at Three of Cups and when Ian began giving the whole bar lessons on how to sing like Mick Jagger from "The motherfuckin' Stones!" as Ian very loudly put it, so I knew it was time to seek booze elsewhere. We polished off our tasty drinks and left.

Next was a place called 7-A, which is located at (big surprise here) Seventh Street and Avenue A. I've always liked that place because the bartender there once bought us several celebratory rounds after my friend Ally and I went there following her newest round of body piercings. Ian and I proceeded to see how bad we could fuck up our stomachs, so we ordered vodka martinis made with Absolut Peppar and ordered fried cheese and the spiciest Buffalo-style chicken wings on the menu. There we sat, literally crying from the volatile mixtures we were ingesting and laughing at the prospect of what would probably spew from our respective rectums the next night.

[As an aside, the "flaming grogan from hell(tm)" that I was anticipating really wasn't that bad, all things taken into consideration, but I'll save that shit (pun intended) for alt.tasteless.]

I threw the tab on my Amex and signed the receipt: XXXJOEL. The bartender didn't seem to mind the slight variation of my real name, though, because the card was somehow valid and I left him a good tip since he tolerated our verbal combination of screaming, crying and tastelessness in general.

On the way home, we were met by a nice little rain-turned-ice storm. At one of the intersections, the street was flooded with near-freezing, slushy water surrounded by huge mounds of snow and ice on the sidewalk. Ian suggested we alter our direction of travel, but I would hear nothing of it. I backed up to get a running start and charged towards the largest pile of snow; it would be the ramp from which I would launch myself across the intersection, or so I thought.

I was wrong.

My feet went out from underneath me as I began my charge and I crashed down onto the sidewalk, my left arm acting as a cushion from the blow. I vaguely recall seeing my boots in front of my face as I was airborne, all the while thinking: Things do not look good from this perspective.

After the inital shock of slamming down on the pavement subsided, Ian's laughter filled my ears and I started laughing as well. Fortunately, I was extremely numb, but began yelling obscenities at nobody in particular, for dramatic effect. Ian kept asking me if I was okay, between bursts of laughter, and I assured him that (at the time) I was in no pain.

Well, that was last night. Tonight's another story altogether. I woke up a few hours ago, on the floor, fully dressed, and with a black and blue left wrist that is damn painful to the touch. Oh well, as I've been known to allege in the past-- no injury, no story!

Fortunately, I can still perform the basic functions necessary to my existence (in direct order of importance): open beers, type stories, pick nose, change tv channels, scratch/wipe ass, masturbate, so forth and so on, heh heh.

I'd like to think that perhaps I've learned a really valuable lesson here, but I know I haven't. I suppose I have learned a few things, however: vodka martinis are evil, icy sidewalks do not make good landing pads, RAM Doubler is a piece of shit that will only fuck up a computer, and that I'm glad I'm right-handed. I guess last night's assault was one of the more pleasant ones through which I've been. [It's a] damn shame I didn't win, though.

XXXJoel