The worst part about coming into work hungover on a Friday isn’t that I’m too fixated on iced coffee and pizza to even consider posting something here – it’s that on Monday I come into work and find a slew of things on my desk that on Friday I apparently stacked neatly and thought, “OK, took care of that.” So my morning has been filled with me picking up pieces of paper and saying, “Ah, Jesus, I didn’t do that either!” I even found three stamped, unsent letters stacked neatly under some neatly stacked documents with post-its reading things like, “Get this signed!” and “FYI ASAP!” which, even now, unhungover, makes no sense to me.
Plus I didn’t get to write about the whole reason I was too hungover in the first place, which was a marathon happy hour on Thursday that included $3 beers, Phillip Seymour Hoffman and a waitress who, for some reason, didn’t appreciate it when I asked, “What are the chances of four attractive guys getting a round on the house?” Despite her initial anger, it seems the chances were about 300%, roughly the percentage of free drinks she brought us for the rest of the night, calculated by a ratio of “:drinks received before this woman was attractive” and “drinks received after she became attractive.” (Yes, i think the blond one is a man.)
Cronton Resevoir Tavern - Best Lighting in NYC.
As for this weekend, it was nothing short of the party of the year at Tinga Tinga karaoke bar in midtown, where you bring food and drinks and they provide glasses, ice and the lyrics to a decent selection of songs, cast on a large screen TV with a montage of vacation videos, animal tricks and a disturbing amount of commonplace nudity playing in the background. (But really, what are you supposed to play on the TV screen? Home videos and animal tricks make about as much sense as anything else when 12 people are sharing two microphones, singing songs that can only be considered good in karaoke terms at a TV scrolling lyrics across the bottom. But if I had my choice? Old episodes of Rescue 911. Best reenactments ever.)
Highlights from the night include:
- A rousing rendition of “Wonderwall,” which is probably one of the most underrated karaoke songs of my generation.
- An arousing rendition of “Bad” by Michael Jackson, complete with freestyle lyrics about young boys, the U.S. court system, and young boys.
- A flawlessly performed all-Chinese song, sung by two men who know absolutely nothing about Chinese languages.
- Fake mustache.
- The artificial clapping noise button on the remote control. Used properly, this produced the highest of comedy.
- The first time someone started their lounge act imitation with a soft, accented “Konichiwa.” Not that it wasn’t funny the next 40 times, but as with Chinese massages, the first is always the best.
- Stepping out to go to the bathroom for the first time and realizing that the room you’ve just been singing U2 in a Chinese accent in is, as Matt put it, “about as soundproof as my bedroom.”
All in all, a fantastic time. Obviously, though, bringing your own liquor has its pitfalls, the most notable being that all drinks seem free, therefore making them approximately 50 times more attractive than normal. This means, obviously, that the night was a slow, deliberate decent into vulgarity, culminating with James screaming at a girl mid-obscenity-laced-song/free verse poetry: “Use the “C” word!” at which point everyone pauses briefly before a very drunk James complies with his own request. This is what karaoke (and a bottle of Bombay) can do to a man; and, quite frankly, that’s just fine by me.