SelfAbsorbed.ME : ‘It’s Your Life, We Just Write it Funnier’

I’ve been a bad blog poster this week, but I’m chalk full of excuses, none of which are particularly interesting except one:

I drank an entire bottle of absinthe and recovery time was slightly longer than expected.

Okay…

I didn’t drink an entire bottle. I shared a mini bottle with a close friend. But considering that stuff in like 300% alcohol and I’m a lightweight, the result was still hallucinatory. We’d been drinking rum and coke for two hours when my friend remembered she had a stash of absinthe left over from a recent trip to Prague. It was then that I announced we were going to drink all of it.

“Why?” She said cocking her head. This was just a normal, rainy, New York City night out. There were no great reunions, birthdays or charity events to crash ahead of us.

“Because tonight,” I replied, already tipsy, “I want to be one of those people. Those people who can’t properly walk, those people others look upon in disgust while being secretly jealous because they’d pay cash money to be as outrageously drunk and elated as us.”

I’d been sick and housebound for over a week. I was finally going out, and like a caged animal, was running on overdrive since I’d been bed bound for so long.

I also have a theory that planned party nights tend to fail. Anytime someone says, “tonight’s going to be a wild night,” prepare for mediocrity. Once the expectation for debauchery has been set up, a subtle pressure creeps in and ruins everyone’s sense of carefree relaxation. Predicting outrageous fun is like shooting yourself in the foot before even strapping on stilettos. Because in my experience, the best nights always occur at random. When you’re utterly relaxed, in good company, with no high profile plans and zero expectations. It’s then that you realize you have a bottle of unopened absinthe in your desk drawer. That it’s raining, but you don’t care. That there’s no need for concrete plans when you can just follow wherever the sparkles and Green Fairies you’re now hallucinating happen to take you.

The last time I’d drank absinthe was at age seventeen in Italy. I’d ended up naked on a city rooftop with a bunch of friends screaming obscenities at the Milanese skyline. I passed out in a sleeping bag on the apartment building’s garden terrace. At some point the next morning, my friend and the previous night’s host stole the keys to his dad’s Lamborghini and drove me home.

We’d done absinthe that night the proper way. With sugar (or salt?) – the details are blurry – lighting it on fire and consuming the liquid in warmed shot glasses. This time around, my friend and I forewent all such formalities. We just swigged the whole bottle passing it back and forth – no sugar, salt, or fire aiding the consumption process. We’d scream at regular intervals at the immense disgustingness of the taste. It was like drinking gasoline. It’s a miracle one of us didn’t puke right then and there.

Needless to say, the rest of the night we bounced around like teenagers on ecstasy and my entire prophecy of being those people was fulfilled to the highest extent. We went to D’Or and fueled our inappropriate state with vodka. By the time we went to a club at 2 a.m. I was craving champagne and was sure that a glass of bubbly would help all the liquids I’d consumed that night magically blend together.

Again, how I didn’t end up as one of those people who’s carried out of a club unconscious or one of those girls who randomly begins throwing up on herself remains a mystery. I just danced like a machine all night. And according to texts and phone calls from the next day, I’d apparently run into a bunch of friends and going-out regulars that I know and had failed to say ‘hello’ or make eye contact with any of them. Jumping up and down elated sporting a sloppy grin seemed to be the only activity on my agenda. Or as my friend put it: “We were in our own little Absinthe bubble.”

I almost wish I had gotten sick so I wouldn’t be so blatantly re-craving the experience.

* * *

In other local news, this Wednesday was Goldbar’s doorman Jamie’s birthday bash at Cain. I initially didn’t even recognize Jamie at the party since he wasn’t wearing a scowl and generally announcing, “We can’t accommodate you,” to every non-regular in line. It’s always fascinating to observe door people away from their door, and come to find out, inside a club Jamie is charming, generous, hospitable and frighteningly attractive. Especially, with his British accent and tuxedo (second from the right).

Cain had been completely redecorated for the event with glistening chandeliers (that looked legitimately expensive) and brothel-like red velvet curtains. The safari theme (which we’re all a little sick of after three years) had been stomped out. I appreciated the change and thought the decoration staff deserved whatever a Chelsea nightclub workers version of an Emmy is.

Adding to the already vibrant festivities were the tuxes, pre-mature Halloween costumes, and fabulous flapper girls.

Even as a Halloween hater, I take my hat off to the flapper women whom I believe did a noteworthy job of balancing sexy and chic in their costumes.

This should be a big weekend for costume taunting.

Let’s see what the city has in store…