I was drugged this weekend. Yes, for real. Yes, as in someone slipped something into my drink. A horrible sense of nausea and dread overcame me. I remember leaving the club, but I do not remember getting home. I “woke up” from my zombie walk when I threw up all over my bedroom floor. I was in bed until 7pm the next night, getting up only to drink water and spew chunks.
If someone went through all the trouble of slipping me a roofie, I wish they would have at least raped me. What a waste.
Everyone slept in Friday morning. The girls got ready and went to the girls-only bridal shower that Little Cousin Georgia was putting on for Big Cousin Georgia, the bride. I didn’t even make an attempt to crash the party, which left me alone in the condo with Uncle Friendship and Broseph, each of them nursing hangovers. Uncle Friendship had gotten into Sheree’s stash of vodka at some point in the evening and he was tipsy still this morning, talking and muttering almost non-coherently. He couldn’t sit still. Upstairs, downstairs, in the bathroom, out on the patio deck, upstairs, up more stairs, downstairs, sit at dining room table with me, bathroom, patio, bathroom…..
Broseph was doing a good job of ignoring Uncle Friendship by passing out on the sofa in the living room. I had some soft music going and was about to start working on the play I have been writing, but Uncle Friendship called me from his bedroom in the basement – “Jeffrey! Come down here! I need to talk to you for a minute!” I pretended that I didn’t hear him, but 3 minutes later, he called for me again.
I sighed heavily. Broseph giggled at me as I descended the steps. I walked to the doorway and peered inside, slightly hesitant to walk inside the room any further. Uncle Friendship was seated on the bed, his hand gently patting an empty space, signaling me to sit down. Against better judgement, I sat, leaving a comfortable distance between us. A quick thought ran through my mind – OH MY GOD, I’M 31 YEARS OLD AND I AM ABOUT TO GET MOLESTED BY MY UNCLE!
UNCLE: I’m so happy you came down to Georgia.
ME: Me too!
UNCLE: I never get to see you. It’s nice. (Uncle rubs my shoulder for two seconds too long)
ME: Thanks!
UNCLE: You got a boyfriend up in New York?
ME: Not at the moment. I’m dating a couple guys, but no boyfriends.
UNCLE: That’s great. That’s really great.
ME: Yeah.
UNCLE: You know, I met this guy on the plane from California to Atlanta. He was sitting next to me on the plane. He had really pretty blue eyes. Gorgeous blue eyes. I couldn’t believe how blue they were! Well, we started talking about you and he showed me a picture of his partner – they aren’t married yet – and he showed me his partner on that thing – what is it?
ME: iPhone?
UNCLE: Yeah that! He showed me his partner, that he isn’t married to yet, and guess what?
ME: What?
UNCLE: He had a huge six-pack! Unbelievable! The best six-pack abs you’ve ever seen in your life! You would probably be really attracted to them! Great looking guy! So I told this guy I was sitting next to that he had really pretty blue eyes and you know what he did? He put his finger in his eye real quick and the blue was gone! They were brown!
ME: Oh? He had colored contacts?
UNCLE: I guess. Anyway, he and I exchanged information and I am going to help him make some DVDs.
ME: DVDs?
UNCLE: Yes! They make gay porn DVDs and I was thinking of getting involved and helping them. Not to be in them or anything, but to help them with their business.
ME: Well, that’s nice. The porn business is just like doctors or lawyers or policemen – there’s always gonna be a demand for the service.
UNCLE: That’s right! So… you know, if… if you want any porn, I could probably get it for you.
ME: DVDs?
UNCLE: Yeah!
ME: I don’t know. I usually get all my porn online thses days. I don’t really use DVDs.
UNCLE: Well, I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you.
ME: Well, thanks.
UNCLE: Do you ever watch ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’?
Creepy. Creepy. Sad. Creepy. Creepy. Hilarious. Creepy. Creepy. Creepy.
Uncle Georgia, Uncle Dirty, and Pap-Pap came over and picked up Uncle Friendship and Broseph. They all went fishing and beer drinking in the hot, humid outdoors. They offered to take me too, but I wanted to enjoy the afternoon by myself at the condo and take a hot shower and rinse the creepy juice off me.
This was just Friday morning – wait until I tell you about Friday night…
I’m going to start giving my family nicknames. I’ve heard through the grapevine that some people don’t like their acts of foolishness to be broadcast into the internet on my tiny, little blog. Understandable. I have no problem changing names. However, I stand by my personal opinion, which is that if you don’t act stupid in the first place, then there isn’t anything for me to write about. Anything that happens directly to me is my life experience, and therefore, official fodder for comedy material and future therapy sessions.
So last night, Uncle Friendship gave me a drunk dial. I haven’t spoken to him in perhaps 6 years. We had small talk about New York and the upcoming wedding festival in May. He sloppily told me how excited he is to see me and that he is glad I am going to be there. I strained to listened to him, through slurred speech, tell me a story about his most recent stint in rehab. Turns out, two guys he met there were gay and ended up being very good friends to him. He wanted to assure me that he has no problem with gay people and that “if your Pap-pap has anything bad to say about homosexuals, then I am going to punch him in the jaw!”
Brilliant. Already, I am unwittingly in the middle of drama.
I found out that Uncle Friendship had gotten my number in Aunt Computer’s cell phone. I had given it to her over email last week since we are meeting in the Jacksonville airport and driving up with her daughters, Cousin Science and Cousin Musicals. So, through my simple sleuthing, I conclude that Uncle Friendship was alone in the house, drunk at 3pm (west coast time), and pilfered Aunt Computer’s cell phone all to tell me that he will fight for my gay honor. Swoon.
Aunt Computer used to wrap everyone’s Christmas presents in plain, brown paper that she told us was from her computer company… or something. It was simple, humble and allowed for hours of coloring on the paper after the presents had all been opened. Even as a kid, I recognized the genius of thinking outside the box, even with gift wrap.
One of my few memories of Uncle Friendship was on a camping trip. I was going through a phase where I was obsessed with jewelry. He was wearing a blue and green friendship bracelet. After several margaritas and several more Jimmy Buffet songs, he gave me his bracelet and told me to make a wish. He said that when the bracelet falls off by itself, the wish will be granted. I don’t remember what wish I made, but I remember how excited I was that he had given me a part of him. I wore that bracelet for months and after it fell off naturally, I kept it in a shoebox of mementos for years.
An anger cleansing therapy session, two glasses of Merlot at dinner, a bottle of cheap Shiraz throughout the show, and the mounting tension in my back from having to sleep on the floor for the last week all set the tone for me to have a nice flip-out this past weekend. I haven’t had a good public display of drunk and angry mouthiness in a long while. Two weeks before my 30th birthday seems good enough time as any.
My team, Ugly Stick, had a particularly unruly audience during our improv show at Under St. Mark’s Theater. Hoots and hollers were bouncing around the small basement stage. A camera flashed every 4 seconds. We bravely marched forward. One audience member in particular kept yelling out random words, and in some cases, completing sentances from the improv scenes. We did one scene that involved an egotiscical author reading excerpts from his autobiography – “I was at a low point in my life. I found myself at underground comedy shows, unable to stop making a drunken fool out of myself. I kept yelling during performances because I am a disrespectful piece of shit. Chapter Two…” Hilarious. In the scene, the author was also being heckled by unruly bookstore shoppers who kept yelling, cussing, and jacking off in each others faces. We thought we had spoke to the problem.
Apparently we weren’t clear enough because the behavior only seemed to encourage the beasts. The main offender happened to be a black dude. I can see where Michael Richards flew off the handle and became inappropriate in this situation. I edited a scene and initiated with a very physical and odd character from the opening. I went into the audience to attempt to get my picture taken. I asked the main offender to keep taking my picture. I think the first 2 and a half seconds were hilarious. Then it got awkward. Luckily, I didn’t get down and dirty with the N word or anything.
After the show, several players and audience members were understandably pissed. I not only was pissed, but this whole situation stirred up my deep anger button and pushed it. I became a mouthy asshole. When the loud idiot returned to the theater while I was picking up trash in the audience, he asked “Have you seen my glove? I can’t find my stupid glove.” He stumbled on a stair. “I think I saw your glove on the subway, maybe you should leave and go find it.”
Well that’s all this drunk ninja needed. A disrespectful comment from a fag. “Whats your problem?” he drunkenly insisted. “You are my problem”, I drunkenly affirmed. I towered over him as I was a stair above him. He could have nailed me in the wanker. I could have clobbered his face. “Stop talking during the show and maybe you won’t have people pissed at you afterwards, jerk.” He didn’t even seem to know what I was talking about. He replied in alcohol induced disbelief, “I wasn’t out of line. It’s a comedy show!” “Yeah, its a comedy show. IT’S NOT SCARY MOVIE 4. The audience doesn’t get to talk at the screen.”
Then at the bar afterwards, he reached over and helped himself to a handful of someone else’s popcorn and spilled my red wine all over the front of my second favorite shirt. I calmly told him that I knew it was an accident but that he needs to stop being in my line of vision because I am really mad.
He slurred, “What are you gonna do?”
“If you wanna have to tell all your friends that you got your ass beat by a fag, then keep talking to me. That would be a cute story, wouldn’t it? I will knock you out right now, and then everyone here will know you got your ass kicked by a flaming homosexual. Keep it up. Or you can go home and watch Snakes On A Plane.” He left immediately.
I need to stop getting drunk around drunk people.
Drunk at home. I wonder what the fizz-uck I have been doing tonight besides drinking the half empty bottle of SoCo that lies (lays?) inside my neon green man-bag. I may have done some improv earlier tonight. But now I am at home. What have my drunken stumblings stumbled in upon? My DVR player and 18 episodes of Intervention on A&E. Because addiction is art AND entertainment.
I love this show. Love love love. I cannot get enough of the documentary style de-evolution of a human being. I am addicted to this TV show. Like, hardcore. I’ll do anything to get it. I will suck pussy. Does that mean I need an intervention from A&E’s Intervention?
Just say yes to treatment.
The Signs have always been there. Mel Gibson is a douchebag. I have long hated Mel Gibson for his holier than thou politics and I didn’t even think he was that good in Braveheart.
Everyone knows that jews and gays run Hollywood. Why would you bite either hand that feeds your dirty red-state face? Mel Gibson’s Lethal Weapon is his mouth. Lethal for his career. Now he is back peddling like a weenie. Mel’s Chicken Run from Paparazzi will now be even more delicious because his La La Land FairyTale is coming to a screeching halt. All this business about trying to account for his hate through blaming it on alcohol is a pretty weak Conspiracy Theory.
Mel is such a Maverick at knowing What Women Want. He’s handsome, he’s suave, he’s Forever Young. The Payback will totally be a bitch when this backlash leaves him The Man Without A Face. I am happy that this self proclaimed “owner of Malibu” and “American Patriot has sold himself down The River. There is an entertainment Bounty for this Bird on a Wire. And there is no way Steven Spielberg will pay the Ransom.
Eff you, Mel. Eff you.
My favorite kind of bar is the kind that overlooks a graveyard. Thats where I began my St. Patricks Day in Boston. Two Bloody Marys please…no really. Please? Please, Mr. Bartender will you stop snorting crystal meth for a second and stop talking about all the freaking celebrities that you have served in your life and get me and my sister a freakin Bloody Mary? Thanks. I’ll tell Christina Applegate you say hello.
My sweet ass sis and her bomb diggity friends knew the doorman at a place called MJ’s. We ditched the 20 dollar cover and dove into the Irish pub that was cranking with live music, clogs, and a drunk bachelorette party. I traded them my old Blockbuster card for one of their penis straws. Then the bride to be asked me to make out with her so that she could cross that off her scavenger hunt list.
We found a table with a guy my sissy new from work and his hilarious brother. All the sudden a round of free Guinness came to the table. HURRAY! Then the lamest drunkest girl I have ever met arrived. FINALLY! Her name was Liz but the hilarious brother, Jeff, kept calling her Jill to piss her off. Jeff was a true comedian. We were fighting a fierce battle of who was the funniest. Another time. Another place. I totally would have married him.
Liz was busy giving head to a bottle of A1 Sauce while Jeff and I told everyone about the wonders of MySpace. A table of homely girls asked my sistah if I was the guy from Barenaked Ladies. She said yes. I introduced myself as Steven Page. The wallflowers bought me a shot of Busch Mills. A busted ugly chick made out with one of our hot dudes. Then the hot dude started hitting on the only lesbian in the city. It was fitting that she was at our table since I was the only gay guy in Boston.
The band started playing “500 Miles” by The Proclaimers. Everyone started singing along and dancing. I thought it was weird that Boston was letting that slide since The Proclaimers are Scottish. You say Haggis, I say Guinness I suppose. Hours and pints of Guinness marched on. I forgot how many pints of Guinness I had drank after about 6. I do remember eating and ordering 3 plates of cheesey bacon fries.
Our party parade stumbled to the North End where we were let in the back door of some crappy frat bar. The people watching here was fun for 4 minutes before a bro with a beer hat started making out with a big tittied blonde up against me. It wouldn’t have been too awful except he smelled like Brut cologne and she didn’t have a bra. Someone bought be a drink on accident and I quickly slung it down my throat. My soul sista’s hot dude friend had his jacket stolen and was falling down on the sawdust covered floor so we stole a fancy North Face jacket and we high tailed it out of there to some swanky lounge.
Great music, huge martinis, and mafia dudes. Crazy Plastered Liz ordered my drinks for me since she was closet to the bar. Everything was on her tab. Some new friends came and met up with us. I could smell the coke on them when I shook thier hands. I was passing out from being so drunk I would love to get my hands on some of their yay-yo. Didn’t happen. I blacked out on the freezing walk home and woke up the next day at 2pm.
I didn’t accomplish anything the next day except for taking some pictures at the Boston Real World firehouse. Love it. I also showed my sis how to navigate MySpace and then I got stoned and watched The Constant Gardener. Rachel Weiss was OK. Michelle Williams was robbed.
The Southie parade was magnificent. I met so many people at random house parties. Their stories are many and I hold them close to my heart. A drunk mom invited me to her lake for the summer. A crazy (in a good way) chick with shamrock glasses became my soulmate for an hour. Somewhere along the way we picked up a hammered fireman that came with us to a party across the street from the Good Will Huntil tavern. I froze my testes off walking 500 miles around Southie while my sisters friend rolled a cooler full of beer and spirits through the street. I drunk dialed too many people.
Then I promptly got on a China Bus back to NYC. Drunk, hungry and only hours away from being back at work on Wall Street. I loved my trip. A great one of a kind experience. I also enjoyed hanging out with my sissy immensely. I can’t wait until this weekend because I am doing absolutely nothing.
Cheers!
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