1989

My worst New Year's hangover was about twenty five years ago.

Just a bunch of go-getter teens going to every bar on Avenue A that would serve us liquor.
How many? Let's say all of them.( remember this was the gentrified NYC, all you needed was a passable ID and attitude).  So after many hours of drinking every technicolor mixed drink we could get our hands on, including one named "The Blue Whale" (don't know what was in it probably Mad Dog 2020, antifreeze and cotton candy. Later in the evening I found myself at a friends house,
with a very strong urge to vomit. I was such a good friend, I waited to hurl after I left the apt., just did it in the street and a cab. Got home eventually and wisely put a bucket next to my bed. How cute- like a little Bukowski in training.

Many hours later I awoke, dragged myself into the living room; my Mom was watching a Gilligan's Island marathon, barely looking at me.  All she said was "I made a ham; eat some and take out the garbage." Translation--"I don't know what you did last night; I don't want to know. Eat some ham because we are Jews that laugh in the face of God." Or something like that.

Happy New Year

One from Past- The Dread Dec 2010

Must be the season: I feel out of sorts.
I hate the cold, I hate that it gets dark so early, I never want to go out at night. 
OK I'm not a night owl, but given better weather I can be reasonable. 

I dislike work--One job is quite alright, the second is depressing,  no I'm not being
over dramatic and yes- I spend all my free time looking for a job.

Oh and the weekends aren't that great. Either filling days worth of errands
into two days hoping I can throw a book or movie into the mix.

One time I was listening to NPR (Nice People Radio as a friend once called it).
The topic was "the dread of Sundays" (sounds like a Smiths tribute band).
They had on a writer for the Wall Street Journal (don't remember his name does it matter)?

His article was about the dread of Sundays. The whole article was about "why do people dread Sundays"?  The premise is the dread starts in childhood--weekend's over; school's on Monday.
Shows on TV that remind us it's Sunday. People are in denial it's Sunday and act like it's Saturday.
What does all this mean?  Nothing, just a crappy time of the year, too damn busy.
I must leave--nothing more to say.

I'm the decider and I decide what's best

So it's been awhile since I wrote anything.

I'll start with an old one not published on Clementines Folly-
Original date- October 25, 2010 Title-This smells funny...Try it

Spent a Sunday afternoon in Dumbo.  I decided to check out this Steampunk event, held at a loft space.  I've been intrigued by the whole concept of the Victorian/Science Fiction meld-
Also I'm a sucker for the old timey style of dress. Top hat, canes, spats, gals in corsets, men with wacky facial hair, drinking tea, and eating lavender infused cookies.  I waltzed in and surveyed the scene.  Looking for a place to sit I found the last empty chair.

Before I sat down I asked the if the seat was taken,  The raven haired sour faced woman responded by "swanning" her hand to the seat.  I took this to mean"you may uninvited guest" As I sat down the gent next to her in proper attire tipped his yes-black velvet top hat and uttered "Welcome".  I stayed long enough to listen to three writers give impromptu readings of their work.  At the event they were serving tea and biscuits  I could have used something to soothe my dry throat, but I already felt a bit out of place, and too shy to ask for a cup I did without.  Not a total convert to Steampunk-but I enjoyed myself and I was impressed by the commitment of the attendees.

So what to do next? I took my camera out of the bag and started taking pictures on a beautifully sunny day.  What would make it complete?  Lets say a lovely grande cup of Pikes Place at Starbucks. Cup at the ready: ( little secret refills are .54 cents as opposed to paying 2.40 for another cup. seems logical, oh and it shows I care about recycling).  I put my cup on the counter proudly exclaim "refill please" and patiently wait for my java.   Change in hand the barista says 2.40 "please".  Confused I say "but this is a refill". "Oh sorry we don't do refills". "If you got the coffee here we would, but you didn't and its at the discretion of the baristas" 2.40 please"... "Please don't hold up the line thanks"... Seeing the barista mafia was holding my cup hostage, unable to handle one more insincere "please miss" from "JANE" damn- I really wanted the coffee, I acquiesced. Before I left I got "sorry about that, please come again" complete with sarcastic smile.

Outside of the store I realized I paid full price for my coffee and they didn't replace the cup. Full price dirty cup-- I take a large swig, not realizing the coffee tasted funny not bitter, rancid. The second gulp was even worse I now have nauseous feeling and an awful taste in my mouth what to do?
I found a frozen yogurt truck, order a simple vanilla hoping this awful taste will go away.
At first it worked. then about 10 min later I found myself feeling the strong urge to throw up.

Now I find myself wandering the crowded streets trying to find an empty space to "take care of the problem". Everybody is blocking my path- Kids, old people, strollers, dog walkers and hipsters-
I NEED ONE EMPTY BLOCK! Finally one garbage can and empty street, I cross the block I look to my left I look to my right , I cross and and of course this guy walks in front of me. "You don't look so good" "Are you OK"? "Do you need help"? He blocks my way to the garbage can. I gently nudge Mr. Helpful out of the way to reach the goal.

As I look up he's standing over me "Oh I get it sorry"... I dab my mouth with a tissue, and say "Sorry you didn't get your merit badge helping me with directions,  but I'm sure you'll find an old lady you can help across the street". He mumbled something and walked away... Later in the evening I found myself in Manhattan, thirsty and a bit drained. I still needed my Pike. Rancid cup in hand go to the counter at Starbucks expecting the worst and order my coffee. Huzzah! grande 54 cents, my faith was tested by Brooklyn but all was well in the isle of Manhattan.
Fare thee well...