Hey guys. Today’s my birthday. That’s right: 21. Double digits. I was going to wait until afterwards and give you a recap, but I’m planning on being pretty hung over for a few days, so I thought I’d better do it in advance. Here’s what I’m going to have done for my birthday.
The night started slow: martinis with Louise at Third on Fifth. Louise is an old friend from Posture Camp, and she promised me years ago that she’d take me out on my 21st. Now, when it comes to martinis, I’m a traditionalist all of a sudden. If it doesn’t have gin in it, I say, don’t even call it a martini. Louise disagreed, so I continued ordering gin martinis on her tab as a passive-aggressive attack. She left after I ordered my 11th. Finishing it, I staggered out of the lounge, and off to the next bar. By this point, I was wasted.
Next I headed uptown, to O’Bleary’s, where I met up with my buddies Sean, Patrick, and Irish. It turned out that August 9th is St. Pancreas’ Day in Ireland, a traditional holiday commemorating the resignation of Richard Nixon. It’s normally celebrated by reciting the poetry of Yeats, binge drinking, and boxing trees. Needless to say, it was a blast. I drank 17 pints of Guinness, led the whole place in a three-part round of “The Man Who Dreamed of Faeryland,” and took down a spruce bare-knuckled. Then I blacked out. By this point, I was sloshed.
Next thing I remember, I was standing, my hands were bandaged, and I was explaining the topic of my thesis to a group of Japanese stewardesses in a hotel bar somewhere. “I believe,” I slurred, “that all baby animals are cute. Right? Except for insects. And arachnids.” Luckily, none of them spoke English. I bought us a round, and pretty soon, I was doing body shots off of their efficient Japanese breasts. I tried to get some action, but they recoiled from my still-bloody hands and fled to their rooms. Frustrated, I slipped the tongue to a vending machine on the way out, and resolved to go somewhere where I could meet some ladies. And keep in mind, I was blitzed by this point.
When it comes to finding ladies, there’s only one thing you need to remember. Ladies equals clubs. That’s a mathematical fact. So I headed downtown to Frantic, the hottest club of the summer. At the door, the bouncer wouldn’t let me through. I was on the list (the owner, Fran, is an old friend of mine) but I hadn’t counted on it being Civil War Night. Nobody was allowed in unless they wore an authentic Union or Confederate uniform. I cursed my luck, but lifted the curse when I saw a 24-hour costume shop across the street. Only in this town. I splurged on the custom-fitted General Lee c. 1865, so I was forced to buy it. When I got back, the bouncer told me they had too many rebs already, and turned me away. And I had just thrown out the receipt! Determined to have my fun, I bought a fifth of Scotch and drank it in a spot in the alley where you could hear the music coming out of the club. And it turns out that Scotch is only sweetened by tears. By this point, I was plotzed, pooped, plundered, and ready for bed.
So that’s how I woke up this morning: hung over, dressed like Robert E. Lee, my hands bandaged and covered in dried blood, and lying in the gutter outside a nightclub that was, during the day, an ice cream store. I was in bad shape. I had scars on my back from having a tattoo removed (I couldn’t even remember getting one,) my skull felt like a soccer ball with a headache, and I was covered in my own puke. In case you’re wondering, I knew it was mine based on its composition. Dusting myself off, I bought a whale-shaped ice cream cake and sat down on the stoop to eat it. All in all, I thought to myself, it was the best 21st birthday ever.
Tags: Fiction, Nonfiction by Matt
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