Week ends

...At 4:57AM everything is blurry. I'm listening to Radio Head's “National Anthem” and I'm buzzing on both teeth-grindedness and anxiety. Saturday night turned into an absolute slosh fest and now I find myself, on the rinds of the evening, typing away at my keyboard trying to describe the indescribable I always dream of describing.

I met Scott out at Andrew's house party. Upon my close-to-midnight arrival the party was packed and the apartment, stuffy. There was a easy-mix of both muscle guys and hipsters, a cup in everyone's hand and the presence of light just absent enough. I see Scott, as animated and zestful as ever, arms flailing in the tightly squeezed room. I tap him on the shoulder and we catch up on the day over drinks. He introduces me to the current gaggle of people entranced by his presence until we detach and head over to the window for a smoke. Gregg's there, squeezed into the corner by the usual suspects of furry faces fuzzed into unfamiliar names. We greet, we smoke, we drink. The three-bedroom apartment is packed and my head, mixed with an Indian summer's humidity, begins to sweat. Droplets form, like dew to a blade of grass, upon the skin of my forehead. I remove my hat. Run my hands through my hair. My fingers aggressively wipe my beard, put my hat back on and resume composure for company.

I swivel out of conversation and head to Andrew's bedroom with the hopes of seeing him. I duck into the room and, low and behold,there he is, arm slung over a friend's, chatting away, bright eyed and gleaming. He greets me with a warm hug and I hug him back, adding a few jabs to his rib cage in that I love you so much want to grab-you-touch-you-hurt-you-fuck-you type way. It's a sign of affection and respect more than an intention toward heavy flirting. I'm glad to see him. He's good people and I'm letting him know. We quickly chat, cheers and drink up until I grab another beer roam around and look for Scott.

“We're going to Eastern Bloc,” he states with confirmation and leadership. “Ok,” I shrug and drink what's left of my beer.
Eastern bloc is three avenues and seven streets southeast of the party we were leaving and we used the walk to talk nonsense and smoke cigarettes. Scott's two friends are visiting from LA and I gabbed them up about where I lived and where they lived and the inevitable NY vs. LA conversation which always leads to nothing other than apples vs oranges solution. In any event the journey went quickly and before my second cigarette was out we were flipping our ID's for a bouncer.

Eastern Bloc is as lit as an American version of a real red light district. There's hardly any light, but just enough red bulbs glow so you can see the amount of money your spilling out on to the bar. It's narrow and packed, part of the gropey-get-wasted galore of it all. It's a real elbow and snuggle crowd until you form your own space with the posse you walked in with. I found a corner of the bar and spit dollar for liquid and ended up with a vodka-tonic. I picked the lime off the glass and chucked it onto the floor. Shoved the straw in my mouth and swigged to a survivor's Saturday night.

Scott bought a beer and his LA friends were easing in with vodkas and sodas. We were handsy and drunk and the place was rowdy. The DJ was spinning a mix of bubble-gum pop classics and rock remixes. It was both easy to dance and easy to stand. There was a guy dancing in his underwear who could have easily been a go-go boy as much as a local East Village boy gone wild on a Saturday night. He danced as if he accepted either outcome of the equation and reveled in his sacred moment of performing. The music is loud enough that you have to bend into somebodies ear to understand what they're actually saying, which became difficult as conversations flew from huddled-circle mouth to huddled-circle mouth.

Eastern bloc was supposed to be a last night drink but I was well into my second when Scott told me he was leaving. I hugged him tightly. Thanked him for a wonderful night,which unspoken, translates to a: it's always a pleasure seeing you- I'm glad you're my friend, sentiment and he was on his way.

I finished off my beer while having a conversation with a studly guy about whether his HRC hat was just a hat or an organization he supports. More or less, it turned out to be just a hat, but I enjoyed his warm energy, tightly fit tee shirt and his ability to keep up in conversation. I tipped the last foam-froth of beer into my throat and put the hollow bottle on the bar. I was thinking it was late and my hunch proved correct as the lights flicked on, turning what was once red and dim, to blaring and unforgiving. The man I was having a conversation with and I ducked out on to the sidewalk. The mass of nothing-to-do and nowhere-to-go but still-want-to-party crowd was on the sidewalks blabbering and smoking. I fished my pocket for a cigarette from a pack of Camel Lights I happened to come upon after someone left them at Andrew's party. I plucked one out and socialized for a light. I got one, said some goodbyes, offered my last remaining heart-felt smooches on the cheek and headed east to my apartment.