There’s something wrong with me.
That much is clear.
As I walked on the way home, drunk and stumbling, rueing, rueing that I drank that jungle juice when the beer ran out, with my cell phone in one hand and a delicious yogurt-and-onion-covered samosa-and-chickpeas in the other–
All I could think about was blogging.
The party was advertised as “the last rooftop party”, something I realized with the loss of a college community, might indeed be true.
However, it was only meant to signify that Andy Roehm was moving out of his apartment (to an apartment down the street), and thus, this was an occasion for drunkeness.
I might have talked about Andy here before, but I’ll do it again, in part because I’m too lazy to look and in part because it suits the story.
Andy is–was–a breath of fresh air at NYU-Film school precisely because he was so ordinarily wacky as to throw the rest of in repose to the sheer silliness of our own existential dillemas.
While a film student (unnamed) might spend an evening struggling to think about identity and how to become who he is becoming and what is lost in the process and how that might adversely affect his art as he stays up late, bent in contemplation, Andy would just get, as he would say, “fuckin’-drunk”.
The epithet suited him well as he came into our Friday morning class we shared for two semesters with similar but new crazy stories involving women, liquor, sometimes dancing and usually some crazy roommates. His stories were always lazily sexual in the ways mine were usually depressing and so it felt on those Friday mornings like I was interacting with someone at a different college completely–or at least watching Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
Andy had invited me over to his apartment and I invited my friends, but felt a lack of self-consciousness that day that was marked in college.
Normally, I would have required a “date” or at least a “party buddy” to show up at one of these events in order to not feel lame, but maybe it was that I’d had a good time at the first meeting of my fledgling writing group, maybe it was that I had seen a movie and took a walk with a petulant, but petulantly cute Desi girl; whatever it was, I felt good and had no qualms showing up alone.
And I had a good time, mostly. I talked to people I hardly knew, cracked jokes, felt less bad about my unemployment, in fact I felt great, I felt awesome. Someone asked me what my “big plan” was and I told them about all the places I’d applied and figured saying them out loud that at least one of them was bound to work out.
Partly, I blame this bravado on my the retreat of my psoriasis due to the pretty-frightening drug I am taking to control it. While the drug is scary though, my skin is clear for what seems like the first time I can ever remember and I look in the mirror and I think “Damn, you know. This could kind of work. This could kind of work in a Seth Rogen-y, funny jewy-type of way. This just-might work.”
So I had a good time, drank beer and quoted the ounce amount I was on as I finished the can. My only regrets were that I had
a. started drinking the jungle juice when I found my six-pack looted
b. gotted started too early and so by around 1am, I was drunk and discontent and ready to leave.
Even then though, girlless at a party with more moderately-attractive, available single women my age then I can ever previously recall seeing, I still felt okay.
Well that’s not true.
I did have a gripe.
But why tell that story?
When I can just share what I drunkenly wrote on my phone at 1:30am walking back home, thinking of blogging.
Well, first I should provide some context.
Lots of my friends were there and we were all trying in an ironically post-college way to score with the post-college women, assuming everybody is so frightened they’d be playing musical beds.
Chadd was there, drinking a 40 of Old E and talking to former suite-mates, hallmates, friends-of-friends and hangers on.
Todd Wiseman was there with his blond surfer’s guise and unassuming attitude that I envy as he’s just such an easy guy to like.
Even Mike Sweeny, who I’d been seeing a lot of recently, was there with a Stern School of Business girl in tow, who he introduced me to.
“You know, Nick,” Mike offered. “I don’t think she likes guys like us. She used to date a quarterback and a running-back in high school.”
“Well, what I want to know is which on was faster.” I said.
“Ohhhhhh!” Sweeny said as we pounded hands together while the Stern girl looked on.
“Uh, what do you mean?” She asked.
“…I mean I’m going to get a beer.” I said and let them be.
But then the night was full of my own talking and not talking.
Chadd and I stuck close in this attempt as my attempt to enter a conversation managed to frigten off a pretty LA actress he was talking to, only minutes after he had sent a Gallatin blondie running.
Which brings us to the drunken desire to blog.
Behold, my tome from the previous evening, unedited, unadulterated, pure:
New Blog Post
the party fucking sucked
I started talking to a cute gallatin girl who was talking about her major, media theory, while touching me all over
I thought she was into me until she bumped into me three times later inthe evening while talking to other people her backed turned away
for those of you who don’t know what a gllatin girl is, im helpfully adding an entry on Urban Dictionary under prentious skank
def.- A pretentious skank.
“Dude, did you fuck that Gallatin Girl last night?”
“Yeah but she made me talk about Edward Said and the Abstraction of the Other for three hours before she’d suck my cock.”
Sometimes, I marvel at my own brilliance.
PUNJAB-E DELI- Open 24 Hours
Samosa w/Chickpeas (Yogurt and Onion optional but recommended)- $2.25
Houston St bet. 1st Ave and Ave A
FV to Lower East Side-2nd Ave