heaven, i’m in heaven

8 January 2007
I’ve written about this before - in the summer I think, after a whiskey-soaked date at dba left me with an especially wicked workday hangover similar to the one I have now – but it’s worth repeating: on Saturday, in the Mummers Parade, I drank for 7am until 10pm, consuming innumerable Coors Lights, a 1.5 liter bottle of cherry wine (cost: $7), so much vodka and OJ that I may have given myself diabetes, and ate only hot dogs, chili, and cake; yesterday, I drank from 1pm until 1am, right through the (E-A) two (G-L) football (E-S) games (EAGLES!!!) and up to the Upper East Side, dancing to the Irish music at Doc Watson’s, where, before falling asleep at the table, I discovered that chicken fingers dipped in sour cream are possibly God’s greatest gift to America; last night, I awoke from my drunken slumber in a panic, as I had a nightmare that I took six Valium and actually got up and out of bed to make myself throw up before I realized that I don’t even have any Valium and was dreaming; and this morning, my alarm went off and it was raining and it was cold and I felt that parts of my body – whole areas of organs and skin and bone and especially the area around my testes – were deceased, having been murdered by the reckless and even bizarre amount of imbibing I’ve been doing lately; BUT THEN, as I walked to work in the rain, cursing myself and my friends and pretty much everyone I’ve ever met and everything I’ve ever seen (even the sour cream-covered chicken fingers), Frank Sinatra’s version of "Cheek to Cheek" came on my iPod, with its horns and its stand-up bass and its brushes and its "Yes, I know I’m pretty fucking terrific", and not only do I feel 150% better but I SWEAR TO GOD all I want to do is get a nice shave, put on a tuxedo, go out to some old-timey club in midtown, eat a big fucking steak and drink a lot of scotch (neat, three fingers at a time), dance and flirt and smoke and laugh all night, and then bang the cocktail waitress in a hotel room (preferably in the Waldorf ), calling her "Baby" and "Sweetheart" and "Doll" the whole time because I have no fucking idea what her name is but I like her, in no small part because she is not in the least self-conscious about her body and approaches nudity as if she actually grew up in the garden of Eden, pre-apple and pre-fig leaf and all that jazz.

…

I’m serious.  All I need is a partner.  Drop me an email if you’re interested.