IPW

Insomnia

I don't know when it's officially called insomnia, when you can't sleep for an hour? Two hours? Three days? Well, it's been about an hour so far for me and I'm about to star in a psychological thriller playing myself. People in thrillers always have insomnia or amnesia, or both. It's a good thing that amnesia isn't as common as insomnia or we'd all forget why we we were up so late at night. In the meantime I'll review the activities of the weekend, and perhaps digress into a riff about pants or mice.

On Friday after yet another orgiastic Indian food lunch buffet, I stared at the computer monitor at work, uncomprehending. That lasted until about 6 when D. (one of the four readers of this blog)and A. and I went to meet up with some coworkers for some after work fraternization. This was organized not by us, but we were the first and only group to get there. I had other engagements so I left after about 45 minutes of talking to the guys, much like we do during the day anyway, but without beers in hand. The bar is called "Dusk" and apart from three redeeming features is not my favorite. One, it is close to work and cheap. That's one feature, not two, as there are few bars near work that are a value. I am morally opposed to paying the same amount for one bottle of beer that a six-pack of the same said beer would be. That and I'm cheap. Another redeeming feature, on old-looking round purplish light fixture hangs above the front door with the name printed on it, "Dusk", and I find that to be cool in a low-profile way. From the size of awnings and signs here I suspect there may be some sort of tax dependent on the size of your self promotion. Sometimes places don't have any name outside at all, or its written in chalk so that they might quickly smudge it out if the tax man wandered too near. I like these places because you have to have heard about it or been there before to know where it is. Sometimes, like has happened with a place called Chumley's in the West Village, I've been to a place, loved it and wandered back another time, drunkenly weaving around the streets in search for a non-existant sign of its existence. These are the ghost taverns of yore, and serve a phantom ale that chills yer bones. The final redeeming feature is that there is a two way mirror above the men's room urinals so that you may survey the crowd out by the bar whilst answering nature's call. This is an invigorating and somewhat unnerving sensation as you might guess and can lead to stage fright for the uninitiated.

After Dusk, the bar and the time, I headed to meet Magda and the rest of the Magnum crew down at the Whiskey Ward, a bar within stumbling distance from our old apartment on the Lower East Side. We used to point fun at all the sorry saps that had to haul kiester back to Brooklyn after tanking up on their generous happy hour. Now, we cry softly while we too who have been cast out, drag our sorry selves to the JMZ train, leaving the drunkard's eden of Manhattan behind. The reason for the season, was that our buddy R. (starts with an R, ends with an 'ick') was celebrating both his birthday and his return from African exile. His is such a good story that I will appropriate it here: He works for the UN as a photographer and was part of the delegation sent to negotiate peace between Eritrea and Ethiopia. At some point early in the stay, all the UN delegates were kicked out of the disputed territories and sent to cool their heels is Addis Ababa while things settled down. As with all bureaucracies, things take a long time getting settled, so in the meantime, R. rents a house in town and continues doing what he can to stay busy. Basically, walking around the capital of Ethiopia and trying to stay out of trouble. This sounds like my idea of a good time. I peppered him with questions once he finally showed up for his own party (he flew in that very day, having planned the party two days earlier from an internet cafe in Addis Ababa). First of all, I wanted to know, how did he rent the house? The answer: a broker. Just like in NYC. Later a mutual friend launched into a story he'd heard about some kids in Africa so poor they couldn't afford more than a nut, and they couldn't even get that open because they didn't have a nutcracker. R. told him he was an idiot and I pointed out that if they had real estate brokers they probably could open a nut. Then again, I have dealt with real estate brokers and tried opening nuts and they are just as difficult. The funny thing about R's situation is that he has to go back in two weeks. He is essentially home on a vacation away from his rented house which doesn't have number and is on a street with no name. He doesn't even know where he lives.

We were pretty tipsy at that point but still had another call to make (the Whiskey Ward was serving pint glasses full of White Russian, called, "Fun Size"). We had to meet up with R.'s ex, Z. in Williamsburg, at a party in an apartment very close to ours. Another contingent of Magnumers were there in the sub-ground floor apartment of a Billyburg Brownstone. It was undecorated, large and sort of un-lived in looking. Strange, because three people lived there. This was a college days type party, plenty of cheap beer and weed and Thai whiskey. You know the sort of thing. The main room included many Europeans, partly because it was a going away party for one of the Magnum interns from Denmark. There were a couple Danes there, and a Swede whose main complaint with Americans was the Swedish Chef impersonations that had obviously often been performed vigorously for his benefit. Not knowing many people, I ended up in a wrestling match with the Thai whiskey bottle and won. Meaning, I lost. It was surprisingly good. Smooth and sweet and went down a little too easy. At some point, the crowd was motivated to move a few blocks down through the bitter cold to our neighborhood bar, Bembe, also of small signage. Bembe is an amazing bar with a good natured crowd of all backgrounds. Whenever you see a movie of a place where people of all races and backgrounds are hanging out together and you say, that place doesn't exist, it does, it's at Bembe. Great music, beautiful bartenders, bongo-drums (strangely, not very annoying) and a European style dance-floor downstairs that reminds me of the vaulted cellar bars in Prague and some glorious late nights there. The best thing about Bembe is that like the Whisky Ward way back when, it was easy to drag our worn out drunken selves around the corner and down the block, home.

Well, that's it for the weekend even though that was only Friday. Saturday was a national hang-over holiday, to commemorate the mixing of Pennsylvanian lager, Fun Sized White Russians and Thai Whiskey, one of the great unions of all time. Sunday saw a brunch happen, with good company, but that was followed by more home-work. Which leaves us here, clicking away in the dark, feeling the first effects of non-somnia, the opposite of insomnia and also its cure. I leave you with the image of a newly baited mouse-trap. Gone is the Nutella™, replaced by a gloriously iconic wedge of cheese precariously balanced on the snapping mechanism. I can't imagine the mouse actually falling for it since it's seen that exact image so many times in the cartoons, but oh well, worth a try. It has also been moved to under my desk where I am positive I will catch myself one sleepy morning, breaking my toe and leaving a coffee stain splashed on the ceiling.

Posted by ian at February 27, 2006 12:37 AM