Thursday, January 31, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Consider me Miles Davis
Enis AppleDarsh made it well known to Slim Charles that he had enough. Thanks for playing, thanks for coming out, but we’re calling this a night ladies and gents. Please remember to tip your coat check girl and drive safely.
This is perhaps an appropriate time to introduce you, dear reader, to your humble narrator. I am Enis AppleDarsh’s (and for that matter Slim Charles’) roommate. For those interested, there is a fourth to our apartment gang -- goes by the nom de rock “Honeywell”, although, you may be saddened to learn, that will be his sole mention during my recount of this tale. I should admit up front that I was not with Enis on this fateful day, the chronicle of which you are now reading. Through in-depth interviews with both AppleDarsh and Slim Charles, as well as my personal knowledge of the events gleaned from various phone calls and text messages, I am pleased to present to you, valued reader, with the cautionary tale of our unfortunate (anti-) hero.
This entire debacle started innocently enough. On reconsideration, the prior statement is a lie. The single event which led to the climax of our story was hardly innocuous in nature. Nay, faithful reader, this initial event was born out of both Enis’ and Slim Charles’ compulsion to guzzle as much hooch down their insatiable gullets as humanly possible in a competitive fashion. Yes ladies and gentlemen, Enis and Slim Charles entered into a Beirut tournament.
For those of your unfamiliar with Beirut, let me take a moment for a brief aside in order to explain how it works. Beirut is a drinking game. The game is played on any flat, elevated surface (a ping pong table with no net being the best example). On either side of the table stands a two person team. In front of both teams are 10 Solo cups filled to some degree with beer which are arranged into a pyramid. The object of the game is to throw a ping pong ball into one of the cups in front of your opponent. Any time a cup is hit, the beer in that cup must be consumed and said cup is taken out of play. Each player has one chance to hit a cup per turn. Once one team has sank a ping pong ball into every one of its opponents’ cups, the game is over.* Hurray.
With this knowledge in mind, let us continue our journey. Now I will spare you the details to which I was subjected (the painstakingly detailed details to which I was subjected), for really all you need to know is that our dear Enis and Slim Charles won the tournament. This was certainly cause for celebration. Enis and Slim Charles happily meandered (read stumbled) to a friend’s apartment to resume the hullabaloo that is so often associated with momentous accomplishments.
Upon completing their jaunt and arriving at their destination, Enis and Slim Charles had a problem on their hands. Neither was long for the UES (Upper East Side for you non-New Yorkers) as, over the years, the neighborhood had been overrun by a cadre of investment bankers and their ilk, who dress in impressively pressed slacks, tucked in button-down shirts (typically embossed with a gentlemen of leisure riding a polo stallion), and sensible loafers. Now investment bankers, etc. dressed as such are not inherently evil. In fact I’m dear friends with several. As a general proposition, however, they share very little in common with the co-champions. It bears noting that it is possible the UES has always been like this, and I suspect it has, but I’ve only lived in New York City proper for the past three years, and to assume never does anyone well.
But I digress. The pair quickly attempted to arrange other plans for the evening. Problems immediately arose and abounded. Where were they to go? Your noble narrator was forcibly stuck at a dipshit party at a douchebag club in a neighborhood far far away. Many people were out of town, and the other friends who were available were already in the duo’s company. Woe was Enis and Slim Charles.
The problems were immediately off-putting and the two champions simply languished where they were, wholly immersed in their dereliction of their plans to escape. I must admit, at this juncture of the story, something was lost on me. I regret to inform you, captivated reader, that I know not what led to the champions traveling to and arriving at a new bar in the equally-douchey area of Manhattan known as Murray Hill, but travel to and arrive at a new bar they did. It was at this point that the story got rather gray, as Slim Charles managed to keep his wits about him, but his co-champion, the lovable Enis AppleDarsh was (to use the vernacular) really fucked-up.
While at the bar, AppleDarsh did not chase the dragon. No, esteemed reader, AppleDarsh merely ordered a single bottle of Bud Light to sip on, in hopes of refraining from becoming a greater risk to himself and those around him. It is important to keep in mind, however, that Enis had been drinking quite liberally throughout the preceding hours and his self-imposed intervention was, as my mother is so often wont to say, too little – too late.
So we find our (anti-) hero still wildly drunk. While carousing with acquaintances, AppleDarsh realized his bladder was rapidly running out of free space and demanding an evacuation in no short order. At this point, our intoxicated co-champion descended what, at this stage in the evening, was found to be a discommodius stairwell en route to the lavatory. Upon successfully reaching the stairwell's landing (no comment on the difficulties that AppleDarsh may have encountered during his descent of the stairwell), our courageous protagonist realized his bladder was winning the battle against his mind/whatever the fuck keeps people from peeing uncontrollably. This precipitated Enis, breath (and likely clothing) still reeking hardily of beer, to make a mad dash for the bathroom. At some point hereafter, but prior to the commencement of urinatination proper (remember I was not there and Enis’ memory was far from functioning properly), more than a trickle, but an amount less than that necessary to cause severe alarm, dribbled down the young man's groin and down his leg (possibly making a pit stop at the grundel). AppleDarsh then texted his beloved roommate (your narrator), "i just pissed myself ... how is it over there?"
* There are many variations on this game, but for our purposes we shall only concern ourselves with the version Enis and Slim Charles were playing.
This is perhaps an appropriate time to introduce you, dear reader, to your humble narrator. I am Enis AppleDarsh’s (and for that matter Slim Charles’) roommate. For those interested, there is a fourth to our apartment gang -- goes by the nom de rock “Honeywell”, although, you may be saddened to learn, that will be his sole mention during my recount of this tale. I should admit up front that I was not with Enis on this fateful day, the chronicle of which you are now reading. Through in-depth interviews with both AppleDarsh and Slim Charles, as well as my personal knowledge of the events gleaned from various phone calls and text messages, I am pleased to present to you, valued reader, with the cautionary tale of our unfortunate (anti-) hero.
This entire debacle started innocently enough. On reconsideration, the prior statement is a lie. The single event which led to the climax of our story was hardly innocuous in nature. Nay, faithful reader, this initial event was born out of both Enis’ and Slim Charles’ compulsion to guzzle as much hooch down their insatiable gullets as humanly possible in a competitive fashion. Yes ladies and gentlemen, Enis and Slim Charles entered into a Beirut tournament.
For those of your unfamiliar with Beirut, let me take a moment for a brief aside in order to explain how it works. Beirut is a drinking game. The game is played on any flat, elevated surface (a ping pong table with no net being the best example). On either side of the table stands a two person team. In front of both teams are 10 Solo cups filled to some degree with beer which are arranged into a pyramid. The object of the game is to throw a ping pong ball into one of the cups in front of your opponent. Any time a cup is hit, the beer in that cup must be consumed and said cup is taken out of play. Each player has one chance to hit a cup per turn. Once one team has sank a ping pong ball into every one of its opponents’ cups, the game is over.* Hurray.
With this knowledge in mind, let us continue our journey. Now I will spare you the details to which I was subjected (the painstakingly detailed details to which I was subjected), for really all you need to know is that our dear Enis and Slim Charles won the tournament. This was certainly cause for celebration. Enis and Slim Charles happily meandered (read stumbled) to a friend’s apartment to resume the hullabaloo that is so often associated with momentous accomplishments.
Upon completing their jaunt and arriving at their destination, Enis and Slim Charles had a problem on their hands. Neither was long for the UES (Upper East Side for you non-New Yorkers) as, over the years, the neighborhood had been overrun by a cadre of investment bankers and their ilk, who dress in impressively pressed slacks, tucked in button-down shirts (typically embossed with a gentlemen of leisure riding a polo stallion), and sensible loafers. Now investment bankers, etc. dressed as such are not inherently evil. In fact I’m dear friends with several. As a general proposition, however, they share very little in common with the co-champions. It bears noting that it is possible the UES has always been like this, and I suspect it has, but I’ve only lived in New York City proper for the past three years, and to assume never does anyone well.
But I digress. The pair quickly attempted to arrange other plans for the evening. Problems immediately arose and abounded. Where were they to go? Your noble narrator was forcibly stuck at a dipshit party at a douchebag club in a neighborhood far far away. Many people were out of town, and the other friends who were available were already in the duo’s company. Woe was Enis and Slim Charles.
The problems were immediately off-putting and the two champions simply languished where they were, wholly immersed in their dereliction of their plans to escape. I must admit, at this juncture of the story, something was lost on me. I regret to inform you, captivated reader, that I know not what led to the champions traveling to and arriving at a new bar in the equally-douchey area of Manhattan known as Murray Hill, but travel to and arrive at a new bar they did. It was at this point that the story got rather gray, as Slim Charles managed to keep his wits about him, but his co-champion, the lovable Enis AppleDarsh was (to use the vernacular) really fucked-up.
While at the bar, AppleDarsh did not chase the dragon. No, esteemed reader, AppleDarsh merely ordered a single bottle of Bud Light to sip on, in hopes of refraining from becoming a greater risk to himself and those around him. It is important to keep in mind, however, that Enis had been drinking quite liberally throughout the preceding hours and his self-imposed intervention was, as my mother is so often wont to say, too little – too late.
So we find our (anti-) hero still wildly drunk. While carousing with acquaintances, AppleDarsh realized his bladder was rapidly running out of free space and demanding an evacuation in no short order. At this point, our intoxicated co-champion descended what, at this stage in the evening, was found to be a discommodius stairwell en route to the lavatory. Upon successfully reaching the stairwell's landing (no comment on the difficulties that AppleDarsh may have encountered during his descent of the stairwell), our courageous protagonist realized his bladder was winning the battle against his mind/whatever the fuck keeps people from peeing uncontrollably. This precipitated Enis, breath (and likely clothing) still reeking hardily of beer, to make a mad dash for the bathroom. At some point hereafter, but prior to the commencement of urinatination proper (remember I was not there and Enis’ memory was far from functioning properly), more than a trickle, but an amount less than that necessary to cause severe alarm, dribbled down the young man's groin and down his leg (possibly making a pit stop at the grundel). AppleDarsh then texted his beloved roommate (your narrator), "i just pissed myself ... how is it over there?"
* There are many variations on this game, but for our purposes we shall only concern ourselves with the version Enis and Slim Charles were playing.
i didn't know what a blog was 3 years ago...
but i think this is a great idea and i'm very much looking forward to reading Glen's first post.
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