New York State of Mind (Pt. II: Electric Boogaloo)

So where to begin with the rest of the weekend?

I'll start with a lowlight: It sucks walking around Manhattan in the cold light of day with a hangover. It sucks waiting in a long line outside in the cold light of day with a hangover in Times Square trying to get tickets to Spring Awakening, only to discover 45 fucking minutes into the wait that tickets are sold out anyway. Fuerzabruta? Also sold out. And I don't even like Broadway shows; all I wanted to do is get one of those cookies with colored sprinkles on them from the Roxy, but even that proved to be impossible.

Now on to the rest. Later, we decided to drink in our hotel room like Chingy, except we're not at the Holiday Inn, we're at the fucking Hilton New York Midtown (tres classier), bitches. And instead of sipping on Hen, we're drinking 40s of Kirin beer and lots of vodka lemonades (as a professional bartender, Krista makes these lemonade elixirs that defy explanation in their goodness and level of intoxication; the trouble I've gotten into by drinking these has been well documented on this and other blogs). And instead of listening to Snoop and Luda and watching BET, we're listening to Roxette, the Jacksons (Janet and Michael) and watching the Top Design marathon on Bravo.

Because that's how we roll, shawties.

Anyway, Krista and I are sufficiently lubricated and head down to the hotel lobby bar to wait for my friend Sean to arrive. While there, we notice the older unhappily married couple next to us listening in to our conversation. I hate that shit, so we decide to stage a fight ("You never listen to a word I say!" and "You need to see the doctor about your erectile dysfunction!") and soon the unhappily marrieds have left our corner.

Soon afterwards the three of us meet up with my friend Doug at some strange loft party in the East Village. You know when you've been drinking and you're out and the edges of your peripheral vision start getting fuzzy? I've passed that point about 30 minutes earlier. The party is large and dark and loud. Doug hands each of the three of us a drink that I suspect to be gin and fruit punch. Or maybe sake and carrot juice. I'm not sure, but the point is it is disgusting. But not so disgusting that I don't finish the whole thing in a hurry because the party is ending (but we've just arrived!) and we're off to Automatic Slims in the West Village.

Automatic Slims is hot and oh-so-crowded. We think about leaving immediately, but the Supremes, then Prince, then (I think) the Eagles come on, so we stay. And drink some more.

Next is The Spotted Pig (there's a theme emerging among our choice of bars), which is fine but I spot no celebrities. Sean, Krista and I are there for at least an hour and engaged in some deep passionate discussions yet I can remember pretty much none of it.

To keep the Weekend of Pork theme alive, the evening ends with some slices of pepperoni and bacon from Ray's on 7th. Oh, and then there was the hot dog from Papaya King at the airport.

So to recap the weekend:

1) we drink (a lot);

2) we are a part of the Rhythm Nation
3) we make new friends (Jersey kids, New Zealand people, girls at the ATM);

4) we anger some people (unhappy married couple, white leather jacket girl);

5) we hate Times Square;
6) pork.