my *wild* Tuesday night.

This is perfect. This is exactly what my evening looked and felt like. Glorious.

Tuesday night my wife invited me to see "The Little Flower of East Orange" with her at the Public Theater, and to attend the subsequent donors party at Chinatown Brasserie.

Let it be said here: If not for my wife, I would never see any theater. Seriously. Without her, I'd be a cultureless zombie, walking around unenlightened with my soul utterly dead.

We gussied up a bit and went to enjoy a bit of the theater. Here are my pretty shoes: blue, sparkly, with a crochet flower. I think they are totally weird and I love them. (Payless Shoes, man ... totally, like, eleven bucks.)




In the audience, I saw a very bristly, tired looking Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who directed the play and was likely gauging the audience's every laugh in terms of the play's success.


I liked the play a lot. Thought it was well-written, well cast, and funny. There were a few moments that lost me/ felt a little melodramatic, even for, you know, the theater. There were quite a few moments that were painful to watch, not because they were untrue or badly done but because they were too true, especially those between Ellen Burstyn's character and her adult children. It made me think of the fights my mom and I have had in the past, and sometimes continue to have. And it made me wince, mostly on behalf of myself and those badly behaving adult children. No matter how much your momma makes you crazy sometimes, really there is no excuse to treat her like that.


The Public donor party was fun. I like that I was perhaps the only person there who was neither (a) working for the Public or (b) someone who had given money to the Public. In short, freerider that I am, I had gone gratis to the party and then gratis to the party to say thank you to the people who gave money. Kind of fucked up but hey, I'll take what I can get. There were rounds of bellini cocktails and white wine and several different hors d'evours. When freeriding, I always say take it to the very edge, so I didn't say no to the several rounds of drinks or to every single last hors d'evour that waltzed past me. I said "yes, please!"

Unfortunately, I also said "yes, please" when Wife and her friend suggested we go out for another couple drinks. I should have probably said "no thank you." Instead, we ended up in the lovely and plush lounge of the Bowery Hotel, drinking delicious things and nibbling (ok, gobbling) down various roasted nuts. 'Twas a lovely evening . . .

. . . at least till the part when I got on the subway at something like 3am and tried to navigate my way back to Brooklyn, with the fucked-up rerouting of the 2, 3, 4, 5 and the weird late night hours. GRRRR. I didn't get home till around 4:30am. That is some bullshit.

Also, I was drunk. Drunkity-drunk-drunk-drunk. Did I mention that? That I had *several* rounds of drinks at the open bar and then three more at the Bowery. And you're talking to a girl who can usually call it a night after three drinks. This is me at the end of the night, propping myself up against the wall, utterly tired of my shoes and the subway, and quite aware and unhappy about the inevitable hangover to come. Look at me. I don't look happy at all.





I think I made that same face for the entirety of Wednesday, as I nursed myself back from the edge. I managed to crawl out of bed briefly around noon to eat at a diner with Dave, and then promptly crawled back into bed and was out cold till 5pm. And P.S., Dave, sweetheart? Please don't hold me to any of those promises I made to never drink again while I thought I was dying. Thanks.