Saturday, December 02, 2006


The scene opens like this:
Robert Deniro walks into the shot and the camera follows him into a phone booth.
After several minutes of mouthing dialogue to an unheard off-screen character, Deniro getting progressively more agitated, he hangs up, and the camera flies up to him like a cruise missile, forcing the audience uncomfortably close while he bashes the phone against the phone booth repeatedly. This is classic.
Zooming out from here reveals a couple hundred bodies dancing or nodding to 80's electronica while Goodfellas plays on a screen projected on the wall behind them.

I stood near the center of the room trying to appreciate the cinematography, but it was difficult with all the people continually getting in my way. Who invited all of them? Aren't they aware this is a Scorsese film? Don't they know what that means?
It's supposed to mean something.

I leaned over and asked a girl where she got her fou-dy from... she told me she brought it with her, but she says it without looking at me as if there were any chance of achieving snobbery while holding a half finished hurricane in hand. I could see the backwash frothing up inside the container, sloshing around sickly with every motion. I had to have one.

Not possessing a beer in firm grasp of my right hand made me feel unbalanced, as if my whole left side of my body was too heavy to move without a proper counterweight. I stood there, pretending to be okay with just observing the crowd, while gears churned in my head about how exactly I was going to exit sobriety at 12:30 on a Friday night at a BYOB warehouse.

Give me alcohol, give me smoke, give me stimulants, give me depressants. I'll take anything that can be swallowed or inhaled.
You could say I was desperate.

All the parts were in position. All I needed was the catalyst to start things off. A single spark. I took the lighter out of my pocket and flicked it a couple of times to illustrate this point visually to the rest of the room.

The phrase BYOB needs to have its language altered somewhat to include the vast variety of instruments which would allow said departure from a sober state. I see a large amount of intoxicants, and smell quite a few more. Friendly faces with full backpacks means you actually have a chance of being gifted a beer if you talk to the right people. Never underestimate the generosity of pleasure seekers. Thanks Mike! My first beer of the night was free and unexpected. I could feel my virility replenishing with my first celebratory sip.

For a moment at around 2 am I got bored and King had to convince me to stay by shoving a few fliers in my hand and pointing me over to two cute girls on the dance floor. I walked over and handed them the cards but firmed up my grip at the last second. "You have to WANT the flier!" But just like with all creatures on earth, upon getting the cards they didn't want them anymore. The girl with the heart shaped earrings stuffed her card down the other girl's shirt which I obviously took as a sign that she wanted to dance with me.
But then her guy came over so she referred me to her friend, whom I correctly assumed had no interest in dancing whatsoever. But I tried anyways.
Then all of a sudden the guy spun around and approached me. "Do you want weed?"
Is this a consolation prize? The camera zooms uncomfortably close.

Sometime later a figure labors away to assemble a joint on the surface of a toilet-paper dispenser in approximately the time it takes to piss. He struggles with the roll and peeks out of the stall through the crack, and sees there are many anxious drunk people with full bladders. It does not matter what you do when you are in the bathroom stall. But how quickly can you do it? That's the end all. The joint looks like a snake digesting a car donut. He gives up and stuffs the gear in the discrete fifth pocket and walks out of frame.

Later on, while in a gas station filled with cops he'll have to remember not to go to his fifth pocket to search for change.

The first rule of night club is, you do not talk to the cops while high.
The second rule of night club is. YOU DO NOT TALK, to the COPS while HIGH. But if you do, don't fear, your taxes pay their salary right? That means you own them.
"Arrest that man over there! Why? Why!!!??? Because he's got fuzzy nostrils that's why! Get over there and make the arrest before I pack up and move to Canada."

When I woke up this morning it was dark out, which was strange, because when I stumbled home this morning, it was light out. This could mean 2 things. Either I passed out after I got home from work, slept for an hour and dreamt that I went out to the warehouse at Front and Fairmount and had a great time, or... All those things happened and then I got home and passed out for something like 13 hours straight. There a few strands of evidence which support the latter theory.
Number 1: Eye crusties
Number 2: I have a big red scar on my back from when I tried to jump up over a railing but ended up rolling under it.
It's a difficult maneuver to describe, but it involves the grace of 4 hours of drinking and a bunch of outside observers exclaiming "Ow!"

- Seg

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