My Weekend: Part I—The Real ‘Side of Life

I fought the booze, and the…booze won.

Twice. And that’s not to say that I wasn’t drunk on Thursday night, too; it just means that I wasn’t fighting that evening. I was fully inviting it to beat the living s**t out of me, even yelling encouragements at the glasses of E&J that I poured out, one-after-the-other. “Hit me harder, you b***h!”

Yeah, it was one of those moments. Let’s just say that I have one less romance and one less “homie” in my life right now. TJ sent me a text message about something random that evening, to which I responded, “F**k c**t whores!”

TJ: “Alright, man. I can see you need the comfort of fermentation. Holla at me tmrw.”

I had planned on staying in Friday night, and therefore use that night as a buffer between Thursday and the bachelor party on Saturday. Ashhad had other plans, though. After a couple of phone calls, I finally agreed to hit up some bars in The 'Side with him and Chappy. The guy can sell.

We started by chugging some Jager in my apartment, before going to Shady Grove and then William Penn Tavern. I threw back vodka tonics with impunity at each stop, so it wasn’t long before my buzz took over.

At the Tavern, we were standing on the patio when we looked in through the glass doors and noticed LRG sitting inside. We went in to say “hi” to him and his friend Schwartz, and were greeted by a live demonstration of the perils of happy hour.

LRG had been drinking since 6 (it was around 11 pm by this point), and was circling the drain. Still, despite his state of drunken abandon, he and Schwartz had managed to find and entertain two good looking girls, who were drinking with them at their table. LRG slurred through a story about earlier in the night, when (according to him): another bar patron, referring to his t-shirt, asked him who Ed Hardy was; LRG explained to him that Ed Hardy wasn’t anyone; miffed at what he thought was a brush-off, the other gent began talking trash on LRG, who then approached him to “discuss”; and, in utter fear, the trash talker fled out to the patio.

When LRG wasn’t paying attention, though, the girl who he was macking said to me, “HE started that whole fight. He’s really drunk.”

We returned to the patio bar, and eventually LRG came out to join us. Standing—scratch that—wobbling by the door, he said to a random hot girl who walked by, “You like black d**k?” (LRG, by the way, is not black). Ashhad announced, “[LRG], Schwartz is making out with your girl!” LRG yelled, “motherf*****r!” and ran inside to where he had left the two girls and Schwartz, who were standing there, innocently talking.

I began telling Ashhad and Chappy about my text message reply to TJ. Just as the money phrase was coming out of my mouth, a cute girl walked up next to me at the bar to buy a drink. I looked over and saw a look of disgust and horror on her face.

Me: *proudly* “Nice, right?”

She laughed, and Ashhad quickly made her part of the group, ordering up four shots.

LRG walked—scratch that—stumbled back out to the patio; Kim, our new friend, said that he looked familiar, but she wasn’t sure why. Unprompted, out came Ashhad with another “[LRG], Schwartz is making out with your girl!” And off he ran, again.

Then Kim’s memory clicked: she had met him at Shady Grove months ago, and he had drunkenly hit on her while “flashing money around and trying to buy out the bar.” She even had some pictures on her camera of that night, which she showed us. There was LRG, wasted: in one picture he wore a sloppy grin and had his arm around Kim; in the other he stood at the bar while waving around cash. I’m so used to this behavior, though, that it was kind of strange to see an outsider’s take on it—it all seemed perfectly normal to me. “Yeah, he’s drunk, waving around money and falling all over people he hardly knows. And?”

Ashhad, Chappy, and I moved on to Alto Lounge, which is a block away. Though I had known of it for some time, this was my first visit. It’s an upscale place with a Euro feel, with dark lighting and a dancefloor. While we were standing at the bar, we heard a trumpet belting out a Spanish tune. Turning around, I saw a guy in a soccer jersey standing on the dancefloor, thrilling the hipster white girls who danced around him. I honestly don't know if watching it made me happy, angry, or sad. Is it possible to combine all three?

Shortly after that we left. And shortly after we left, so did my consciousness. I came out of my mini-blackout around 3 a.m.; I was standing in my apartment, staring at a lady friend, who had just come over.

Her: *confused, staring back at me* “What?”
Me [in my head]: “Where did she come from?”