Dropping Bombs on Your Mom

Manhattan on a Friday night. There can be little that is more soul crushing that hanging out in your own downtown apartment on a Friday. The whole city circles you, a reveling buzzard. The throngs of Williamsburg kids flew by me tonight, they were going from the L stop to some rad Alphabet City bar and I was going to the bodega for a 40 of Bud Light.

The small stretch of 14th street that I walk down has awesome kids with great, ironic hair lurching past. If I keep walking I know that there’s the Blarney Cove ahead just another half block. Just past the video store is that majestic shotgun bar. Popeye is there, hugging people and limping to pour another gin and tonic. The large latina girl, I forget her name but I remember her telling me how much she liked getting fucked by two guys at the same time—and it was ok because I wasn’t her type so she would never have to worry about freaking out a future prospect, she assured me of that. That bar smells like bars, the memory of smoke informs the air. It’s the sort of bar that you can get drunk in and belt out “Total Eclipse of the Heart’’ with your girlfriend and the chick you both plan on fucking later.

The Blarney Cove might be nice but I opt to skip the hangover and drink myself to sleep, the weekend’s ahead and there’s at least one epic night planned. I must save my strength.