My friend Beck parties like a champ but follows one simple rule: Don’t go out after 2 a.m. That’s when bad things happen. Take candy from strangers, cross without looking, dive without checking the depth but stay inside from 2 a.m. until about 6 a.m. and everything is gonna be just fine.
Inevitably, the rule gets broken and just as inevitably, the rule is reinforced by some crazy jackass thing that happens on Bowery at 4 a.m. when all you want to do is GO HOME, TO BROOKLYN, WHICH IS RIGHT OVER THERE, JUST ACROSS THE BRIDGE, I CAN SEE IT FROM HERE…
A few weeks ago Brit had a party and my night ended around 3 a.m., after Kent broke up a fight between my friend Pastry and a plasma physicist. Beck tried her hand at calming Pastry down, but eventually shrugged, finished her cigarette and took a cab to the East Village, breaking her own rule and later proving the rule's merit. She showed up somewhere (she’s not sure where) at some time after 2 a.m. (ahem) and all she remembers about the night is ditching her sister and eating a hamburger. She has no idea where she got the burger, but recalls answering her phone somewhere in Chinatown, eating a burger. Then, it was Sunday morning and she was back in Park Slope.
Don’t go out after 2 a.m.
Our friend Bea was at the party, and she also happens to be the events manager at our favorite local venue, one on which we will all descend this Saturday night. The day after Brit’s party Kent and I stumbled to Bea’s restaurant and focused our bleary eyes on the menu long enough to point to what we wanted, then gulp down several gallons of water. Bea came over and the first thing she said was, You guys were SO fucked up last night.
How did I end up less responsible now than at 19?
Bea also told us she was resting up for this weekend’s party. You guys are crazy, she said, shaking her head. You were SOOOOO fucked up.
Yup. Class all the way over here.
Balancing out whatever debauchery might occur (um, pretty safe bet to say that significant amounts of debauchery will occur) on Saturday night (official name? DanSlam ’05, in commemoration of, among other things, Beck’s husband’s taking of the Bar), I am co-hosting (co-hostessing?) a baby shower on Sunday afternoon. With games and teeny cookies and teeny baby clothes and teeny shoes oohing and ahhhing and something called a Boppy, and I have to drag my [likely hung-over] self to West 10th Street and act excited about diapers and nannies and breast feeding. The baby registry alone gives me anxiety, partly because I don’t know what half the equipment is for and partly because if a friend of mine is having a baby and buying something called “Baby Einstein” then I most certainly am all growed up, regardless of the Hawaiian-themed party I will attend the night before, regardless of whether or not I get lei’d, regardless of whether or not I am safely home by 2 a.m.
Oh, and I am a total sheep: