Sunday, October 10, 2004
How drunk
Something to add to the list of firsts I've experienced since moving to Aberdeen, last night was the first time I got so drunk that large portions of the evening are completely absent from my memory. You could blame the beer, the wine, or the multiple shots, but personally I have to hold accountable the FOUR PITCHERS OF VODKA RED BULL. They sell pitchers of vodka red bull here. I thought that was illegal. Aren't you supposed to die if you have too much of that stuff? The only thing that died last night was our dignity. If dancefloors could talk, this one would just break down crying. As, I imagine, did everyone watching us shake our groove things.
Maybe they serve pitchers of cocktails in America, but it still sounds like some kind of joke to me, like a 7-11 selling Slim Jims the size of anacondas. In some ways, experiences like last night can make you look at things in a whole new light. For example, now I’m glad I haven’t made enough friends in this city to have to worry that anyone I know might have seen me doing...whatever I thought I was doing on the dancefloor.
Rosie and I woke up today and spent much of the day doing the thing where you try and piece together the events and chronology of the previous night. Things keep coming back to me at random intervals and I hang my head in new shame. Like when Rosie commented, "We should have played a drinking game or something," and I had to remind her of when Jo returned to the table with yet another pitcher of vodka red bull and three drinking straws, hollering, "Race to the bottom!" AND WE DID.
Also, I drunk-dialed Luke and cringe when I imagine what I might have said to him while in such a state. It couldn’t possibly have been as bad as last time, and I’m sure nothing I could have said would have bothered him, but the thing about dignity is that there always seems to be more to lose.
So today was all about recovery. Rosie and I became one with the couch and watched The Wedding Singer, Young Frankenstein, and the newest French & Saunders stage show. We also very nearly watched a gay porn she owns entitled "Prowler Men." She told me she received it as a gag gift on her birthday, by which I understand that she scoured every porn shop in the land for the perfect man-on-man action to satisfy her perverted needs. Just kidding...I think.
I saw a television show tonight about a couple of gardening ladies (notice tasteful refrain from "garden hoes" joke) who solve murders when they tend the bushes or whatever in rich people’s backyards. And do you know what this show is called? Rosemary & Thyme. I am not making this shit up, people. Maybe my dream of Bangers & Mash (Walter Bangers and Gretchen Mash, crimefighting partners who don’t get along but do get results, and enjoy bangers and mash at the end of every episode) isn’t such a long shot after all. Rosemary & Thyme is a lot like Murder, She Wrote in that old ladies are underestimated but put together the clues before anyone else does. But the old ladies on this show spend a lot more time eavesdropping from behind shrubbery. I’m still unclear on why these ladies haven’t even been brought in for questioning regarding the trail of corpses they leave in their wake, though.
Maybe they serve pitchers of cocktails in America, but it still sounds like some kind of joke to me, like a 7-11 selling Slim Jims the size of anacondas. In some ways, experiences like last night can make you look at things in a whole new light. For example, now I’m glad I haven’t made enough friends in this city to have to worry that anyone I know might have seen me doing...whatever I thought I was doing on the dancefloor.
Rosie and I woke up today and spent much of the day doing the thing where you try and piece together the events and chronology of the previous night. Things keep coming back to me at random intervals and I hang my head in new shame. Like when Rosie commented, "We should have played a drinking game or something," and I had to remind her of when Jo returned to the table with yet another pitcher of vodka red bull and three drinking straws, hollering, "Race to the bottom!" AND WE DID.
Also, I drunk-dialed Luke and cringe when I imagine what I might have said to him while in such a state. It couldn’t possibly have been as bad as last time, and I’m sure nothing I could have said would have bothered him, but the thing about dignity is that there always seems to be more to lose.
So today was all about recovery. Rosie and I became one with the couch and watched The Wedding Singer, Young Frankenstein, and the newest French & Saunders stage show. We also very nearly watched a gay porn she owns entitled "Prowler Men." She told me she received it as a gag gift on her birthday, by which I understand that she scoured every porn shop in the land for the perfect man-on-man action to satisfy her perverted needs. Just kidding...I think.
I saw a television show tonight about a couple of gardening ladies (notice tasteful refrain from "garden hoes" joke) who solve murders when they tend the bushes or whatever in rich people’s backyards. And do you know what this show is called? Rosemary & Thyme. I am not making this shit up, people. Maybe my dream of Bangers & Mash (Walter Bangers and Gretchen Mash, crimefighting partners who don’t get along but do get results, and enjoy bangers and mash at the end of every episode) isn’t such a long shot after all. Rosemary & Thyme is a lot like Murder, She Wrote in that old ladies are underestimated but put together the clues before anyone else does. But the old ladies on this show spend a lot more time eavesdropping from behind shrubbery. I’m still unclear on why these ladies haven’t even been brought in for questioning regarding the trail of corpses they leave in their wake, though.
