Sunday, September 26, 2010

Dating story #6, a lesson in not going Brooklyn.

Or, as MIM calls it, Brookland.

Brooklyn is a vast, spacious region that has continued to perplex me for 10 years. It always seems like a "cool," "different," "adventurous" thing to do when the idea is posed.  Then, you find yourself on the L train for 40 minutes, and walking another 20 minutes and/or miles. Just when I think I'm cool with it, I'm not.  

Yet it was the stage for the scene last night.  A mutual friend's balcony party, followed by [a 25 min walk to] an insane, debaucherous party at a warehouse.  Yes, a warehouse.  Complete with some "artistic" tranny queen show at midnight.  Dubs was there along with his brother (brogunator).  I couldn't quite gauge his interest level in me last night, but brogunator was not subtle in his willingness to 'hit this.' So, thanks to brogunator plying me with countless (ugh) whiskey shots, the night started to get a whole lottta blurry.  And in a dark warehouse party...yeah.  Apparently at one point I thought I was dancing with brogunator, but looks like I ended up with his stunt double in the same shirt. Or just a black shirt. Or...something. At least this is what I deduced based on the explanation I received when I woke up in Flatbush (or as I'd like to call it, "where the F am I???).  So I turned to the guy next to me and said "...and you are...?"  We'll call this one Abe the Jew.  
{note, I am allowed to bestow this moniker and it's not racialist because I, too, am a Jew.}
Yet I do not wear a large David Yurmin Star of David around my neck.  Luckily, Abe the Jew does!  
Regardless, I owe him a lot since he clearly took care of me in my "state" and was a really sweet guy. Although he was drenched in that nose hair-stifling scent, FIERCE by Abercrombie & Fitch.  That scent pretty much makes me want to die.  I can hardly walk past the store, where I've confirmed they do blast the scent through the A/C ducts.  Bleech.'s posts (and adventures) like these that only re-affirm my decision to NOT share this blog with my family members.  Especially when you repeatedly find yourself involved in shenanigans that make you say "my mother would kill me..." 

Shalom, Abe the Jew.  Thanks for the memories.  

Lesson:  Don't go to Brooklyn.