If you regularly read this site (god help you if you do), you know that my old roommate Brian is a glorious disaster.  But I’ll give you a story to explain how first before we get to the multimedia part of the post.

Many years ago, Brian and I lived together in a small apartment in the Lower East Side with a random girl we met on Craigslist.  Her name was Clare.  She was British, she was a few years older than us, she was a scientist, and she was completely and utterly horrified living with us (I still feel really bad about the terror we put her through).  However, she was nice.  Once, her brother and sister visited from England and crashed in our tiny apartment, and as a sign of gratitude she bought us a bottle of export strength vodka.

At the time, Brian and I had a routine down: each Friday and Saturday night, we would split a bottle of vodka (mixed with red bulls or juice or tonic) and then go out.  We went through two bottles of vodka a weekend every weekend for about six months.  We each had our motivations: Brian drank so much before going out to save money, whereas I drank so much before going out to make myself impotent (this was when my penis used to get me in all sorts of trouble, trouble that I long for nowadays).  These drinking sessions were, as you can probably guess, fucking spectacular.

So the export strength vodka was a great gift idea for us.  Export strength is stronger than regular vodka; it’s 50 proof, whereas most vodka is 40.  So that’s 25% stronger than your normal vodka.

The next Saturday night, Brian and I took down the vodka as usual and went out.  We went over to the Bleecker Street Bar for a friend’s party.  It was only after we got there that we realized that we were very, very bombed – way, way more than we usually were.

I went up to the bar to get us some beers, Brian right behind me.  As I stood there, I noticed a cute girl to my left, sitting there with her friend.  Full of vodka and confidence, I said something to start a conversation with her (I don’t recall what).  I couldn’t quite hear her response – the bar was crowded and loud – but her words were also garbled.  So I repeated myself.  At that point, she beckoned me to come closer and whispered in my ear in a strange voice, “I’m sorry, I don’t hear very well.  I’m deaf.”

Well. 

Well well well.

My senior year of college, I took sign language.  I was pretty good at it.  For our final, my buddies Bill and Randy and I signed the Backstreet Boys’ “I Want It That Way” while it played over the stereo we brought into the classroom.  We wore matching outfits and everything and nailed it.  It was a big hit. 

As soon as this girl said she was deaf, without a second thought I broke into singing and signing “I Want It That Way” – in front of the whole bar.  I didn’t get through the whole song, but I made it pretty far; the girl (let’s call her Stacy, since I really don’t want to call her The Deaf Girl) grabbed my hands at one point, laughing, and got me to stop.  The people around us clapped.  It was actually probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever done (thank you, Export Strength Vodka).

Between my rudimentary knowledge of sign language and her ability to read lips, Stacy and I got to “talking.”  But in doing so, I noticed her friend sitting to her left was bored.  I needed someone to distract her so that I could hit on Stacy.  

I turned and looked at Brian, my only hope, and he was in bad shape.  He had a big smile on his face and looked happy and red-faced.  A man enjoying life, but not too aware of what was going on around him.  He had the bemused and awed look of an Eastern European tourist in Times Square for the first time. 

Though he wasn’t the ideal wingman, I asked him to go talk to the Friend, who was also pretty cute.  Brian nodded and, good soldier that he is, went off to her without a word.  Stacy and I were free to talk. 

I got totally into her.  She was cute and cool and funny and we got along just fine.  Sure, she was deaf, but I have my faults too, namely my baby penis.  No one is perfect, after all.  Daddy issues, ex-boyfriend issues, hearing issues – whatever. 

But as we continued to talk and drink, I felt myself getting significantly drunker.  That export strength vodka had really upped the ante, and I felt I was getting in over my head.  I started drinking more slowly, but it didn’t have much effect.  I was fucked up.  Big time.

Stacy and I had been talking – possibly for thirty minutes or two hours, I can’t recall – when I got a forceful tap on my shoulder.  I turned around to see the Friend, standing before me, pissed off.  Immediately, she started yelling.

“Your friend is the worst wingman ever!”  She then proceeded to list the things that Brian had told her, which I can’t recall (and couldn’t even the next day).  She was going off about what a bad wingman Brian was when I looked over her shoulder at the man himself.  Brian was standing a few feet behind the friend, sort of swaying in place.  He was looking down and his eyes were half-closed.  He wasn’t saying a word and could have been knocked over by a gust of wind.  He was alive and conscious, but was about as close as you can get to unconsciousness without actually being unconscious.  He was a total zombie. 

The Friend’s complaint put a damper on mine and Stacy’s conversation, and she said that it was late and she should get going anyway.  I started to panic and was pissed off – here Stacy and I had been hitting it off all night, and now she was being whisked away from me because Brian died on his feet.  As she put on her coat, sensing the moment slipping away, I anxiously asked Stacy, “So, can I have your number?”

She said, “Well, I don’t really do well on the phone, so…” 

I cut her off: “Ok, I get it.  Have a good night.”  Though I had been rejected numerous times before, this was a new one.  I had just gotten rejected by a deaf girl. 

I grabbed Brian and we walked away as Stacy and her friend left the bar.  Shortly after, we left the bar.  On the cab ride home, I left drunken voicemails for a number of my friends, complaining that I had just been rejected by a girl who can’t hear.  Moments before, I was convinced that Stacy and I would get married.  Now, I was leaving four minute voicemails to friends bemoaning the fact that a girl who can’t even hear doesn’t want me.  Again, thank you, Export Strength Vodka.

Though it was a Saturday, I had to go into work the next day.  There, with a clearer mind, I relayed the story of the previous night’s events – the “I Want It That Way,” the love, Brian turning into a zombie, then the rejection – to co-workers, some of whom I had left messages for the night before (this is when I was a legal assistant and worked with forty people ages 22-24).  It was with their help that I realized that Stacy was not exactly rejecting me; all she had said was she doesn’t do well on the phone.  I never bothered to think through that the reason she didn’t do well on the phone was probably because she is deaf.  Whoops.

We all had a laugh at my expense and around 2pm, figuring he was awake by then, I called Brian.  Because all of my co-workers were enthralled by the story and Brian’s pivotal role in it, I put him on the speaker phone so everyone in the caseroom could laugh along with us.

Me: “What a night last night, huh?”
Brian: “Yeah.  That vodka was no joke.”
Me: ”You got that right.  I still can’t believe I got rejected by that deaf girl, though.”
Brian: “What?”
Me: “Yeah, at the end of the night, I got confused and thought she was blowing me off, and so didn’t get her number.”
Brian: [thoroughly confused] “What are you talking about?”    
Me: ”The deaf girl.  Nothing came of it.”
Brian: “Deaf girl?  What deaf girl?  Are you fucking with me?”

Brian didn’t remember anything about the deaf girl.  Not me talking to her, not talking to her friend, not being called the “worst wingman in the world” – nothing.  This, of course, set the caseroom into hysterics, as my co-workers couldn’t believe that he didn’t remember a single thing.  When I told the whole story to Brian, who lived through it, it was like explaining iPods to my grandfather – shock, incredulity, and a good bit of fear. 

This is most the egregious example, but this is just how Brian rolls.  Almost every time we go out, he does his Functioning Blackout.  Of course, my friends and I are usually extremely drunk when Brian is like this, and we’ve been hanging out with him for so long now that we don’t really even notice.  

But today, my friend Nicole sent me some pictures from her birthday party a few weeks back.  Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present the first photographs of Brian in Functioning Blackout Mode.   

Aisha, Kara, and Brian, taking a rest

Nicole, Kara, and Brian, Life of the Party

Aisha, Kara, and Brian, taking time out for some water (probably a good idea, bro)

Nicole sent me a link to these pictures today they made my day.  In order to really appreciate it, you have to view the full set, which you can do here, because these three pictures are among a set of your standard girl pictures.  My female friends are all smiley in them, and then there’s an occasional picture of Brian looking like Death.  Absolutely priceless.

In the near future, I hope to buy a new digital camera, one that is slightly less small than a brick like the one I have now.  And I hope to record these moments in the name of science (and ball-busting), so that we will be able to better understand how the Functioning Blackout works and what makes him tick.

(I’m pretty sure it has something to do with Budweiser and Led Zeppelin, so at least I have a head start.)