Friday, January 9, 2009


It wasn't that it was really all that late. It just happened to be that time of the night where only a burnt cup of coffee and some really bad breakfast would suffice, and after last call, it seems the only places welcoming the public are low grade diners with questionable health ethics and of course, gentlemen's clubs. Usually, a gentlemen's club is a fine place for a drunk to wind up after a night of tying one on, and having been way over-qualified for this task, my hard earned money, along with my dignity, would've ended up in the ass crack of some white trashed, bruised kneed dancer. Don't get me wrong, I love donating money to aspiring porn stars and meth addicts. It's just that the last time I checked, Crazy Girls doesn't serve eggs.

We left the bar engaged in a drunken swagger that even a Kennedy could envy, each of us with one arm over the other's shoulders. Had we been sober, this kind of half-assed man hug would only confirm our underlying homosexual tendencies, and would have quickly been pointed out by one of us calling the other a pillow biter, sword swallower, or one of many other politically incorrect names for fag. Amidst our oddly staggered steps, I realized I was mainly a mobile support beam for Bryan. I felt like Andrew McCarthy in the Weekend at Bernie's movies. After all, this was the second time in two years that this had happened, and the first time was much, much more entertaining.

We were half way to the NoHo diner, and Bryan still hadn't said a word. His eyebrows were scrunched up and his lips all contorted, his upper lip forming a triangle with its pointy tip just underneath his left eye. I was beginning to worry. I sat him down on the stoop of some shit-colored apartment complex, and attempted to bring him about to full consciousness. I mean, this walk was pretty fucking boring, and Bryan was pretty fucking heavy. I was also pretty fucking sloshed. The fact that I was playing babysitter to this drunken cadaver was making my blood boil.

The genius inside of me decided that I would need something wet to get Bryan out of his trance. I needed a spray-hose, a bucket of rainwater, or anything else that would've been a top 8 answer on Family Feud in the category "Things to Wake Up A Drunk Friend." After hatching this plan and patting myself on the back about it, I had found a one-liter bottle of Aquafina water. Now, I'm usually a pessimist, but with the bottle about a quarter empty, I was pretty optimistic about the situation. The cap was screwed on pretty tight, and my hands were wet with anxiety. I put my shirt between the cap and my hands, and the water splashed out like I'd just cracked a bottle of Cristal. Pissed off at the whole situation, I began throwing the water all over Bryan, kicking his feet to ensure that he come to. As if it were bottled smelling salts, he began to slowly raise his head and open his eyes, but I didn't stop. I wanted to make sure every last drop of this water helped the cause. I was gonna baptize his ass.

The night air was actually pretty cold during the winters in Los Angeles, and steam began to drift off of Bryan's flannel shirt, surrounding the both of us in a disgustingly sweet smelling cloud. He'd frequently worn this shirt since the early 90's, swearing to this day that Eddie Vedder is a god amongst us mere mortals. With a violent thrashing of appendages, he freed his arms from his grunge rock relic, cursing at me relentlessly, while somehow managing to get it over his head without undoing the buttons.

"Whadtha---fuckin' aww---fridded shiiiiat. Yarund mizhert." I just wanted him to wake up, I knew I wasn't bringing out the rocket scientist inside of him. "Yarund mizsert," he screamed while wiping off his hands and face with the dry side of his shirt.

His slurring wasn't helping, and neither was the fact that my brain was decelerated by the same drinks that made Bryan borderline retarded. He kept screaming the same thing at me, louder each time, and right when I realized exactly what he was trying to tell me, he enunciated every syllable with such verve and attitude, that I would have understood him anyway.

"You ruined my shirt!"

I stood there with the look of a lost child, knowing full and well that water doesn't ruin clothing. He balled up the shirt and threw it at my face as hard as he could, but Bryan was never the athletic type. It landed at my feet as if hurled by a left handed girl. "Smell my fucking shirt. That'll clear up any confusion for you, asshole! Jesus Christ! I can never wear this fucking shirt again." I picked up the shirt, took a quick whiff and I was convinced that Bryan hated me. He had every right to. I had just dumped a bottle of someone else's piss on him.