Just One of those Nights

I wasn't exactly drunk when I met Lindsay at 1Am on the corner of Christopher St. and 7th Avenue. She was coming from a bar in midtown which was "a great venue but filled with the cheesiest Italian guys with shaved arms and fake tan" and I just escaped from the howls and growls of the bears at Ty's. We both weren't ready to call it a night and decided to duck into some place for a night cap.
A beer, a scotch, and a planter's punch later our innocent plan for a night cap turned into a whirlwind night of sloppy and obnoxious goof ball mania. Somewhere between gently sitting at the bar and my three-quarter empty Planter's Punch Lindsay and I lost it. Then, we grew wild.

Luckily I have my camera to illustrate the progression.

First it was like this









Then it became this









Then all hell broke lose





...Apparently, from what Lindsay told me the morning after, we owned the juke box and at some point Lindsay pretended to be a writer for a magazine working on article about escorting and hustling in the West Village, going up to people and asking them if they knew about "the scene." In all honesty I can't remember much after the Jukebox and as Lindsay was on the phone this morning, the receiver placed far away from my throbbing brain, I asked, "Lindsay what the hell happened to us last night?" and bewildered, as if she couldn't tell if she had seen a moose or a ghost responded simply, "I don't know..."