[Yeah, i know the photo is blurry, but if you look at it for a couple minutes, you’ll see what i’m gonna talk about. If you’re having a hard time, focus at 11 o’clock, inside the cop’s left knee.]
From the juiced-box:
[Press ‘Play’ and crank it up]
What is a typical Friday like in Al’s life?
Ah, if i had a dollar for every time i heard this — well, i’d have a dollar. Still, i have no doubt that the millions of you who have yet to read the Diary-a of a Chronicle Drinker spend an inordinate amount of time wondering how the hell i spend my Friday nights.
i can just feel you there, sitting on your sofas (and there’s probably a handful of you there that i’d actually like to feel while you sit on your sofas) drunk enough to confuse the Bud in your hand with the TV remote as you wait for the kids to mute, wondering in that slurry internal mumble you have that i find so adorable, “Just what in the hell does Al do on Friday nights anyway?”
Well, like all tender bartenders, i aim to serve and so here’s a photo blog for you.
Hey, if i wanted to serve as your Slurpreson and didn’t have a job what would that make me? An unemployed Sluperson, for sure, but could i really say i was a Functional Alcoholic if i didn’t function from time to time?
Here’s the hot water kettle in the break room that i use to make my instant espresso:
Note: i am not the one who decided the best place to keep our Friday night cocktail whiskey was right next to the kettle. i was, however, able to resist. Anyway, i don’t like drinking Irish Coffees at work ever since a secretary walked into my office and said out loud, “It smells like whiskey in here” in front of the other people i was hanging out with.
One of the nice things about where i work, other than all-i-can-drink wine at lunch about three times a week, is the cocktail party every Friday evening.
Here’s what the fridge looks like all Friday afternoon:
Beer from top to bottom and the hard stuff in the freezer.
We put the overflow on top:
Last Friday i didn’t have much time to imbibe ’cause i was gonna meet Miss Demeanor at the movie theater so we could see Saw VI. (To kinda pat myself on the back here, a secretary, other than the whiskey one, remarked that she’s missed me at the cocktail parties because i’ve only attended a few since Miss D moved here a year and a half ago: i offer this up as more proof to my functionality as an alcoholic.)
So i only had 20 minutes to drink before i had to leave, so i had three Heinekens. Here’s what the reception area to our offices look like on Friday evenings:
Then, ’cause i was out of time, i poured a double Zubrowka in a plastic cup for the road. Here’s a picture of this in my apartment ’cause i don’t have a shot of the one i walked out the door with:
i also put a fourth Heinie in my coat pocket, which was a good thing, because i was walked to the subway station, sipping the vodka and remembering why i hate drinking hard booze straight because my throat seized up with every sip and once i even threw it up back in my mouth before swallowing again. The fourth beer, the welcome beer, the chaser beer, i drank in the subway while wearing my suit, not caring what the people staring at me were thinking.
i already told you i saw Saw. If you want to see the review one more time, it’s right here.
Friday nights in Yeman get pretty out of hand. Here’s a traditional way of spending the evening inside a subway station:
It was a long subway ride back to our apartment. The station we had to change trains in is Grand Mental Station, a magnet for the criminally insane, where all the wackjobs congregate in an open asylum and no sane (or sober) person should ever think about stepping foot there after dark unless they want to be found on the front page come Monday. i took Miss Demeanor there (hey, i said “sane or sober“) and we’d just missed a gang fight among the inmates.
The photo i posted at the top, and am reposting here, is of a victim lying on the ground vomiting blood while he calmly talks to the cop.
What Can i Say?
Another typical Friday night in the life of Al K Hall. Makes y’all want to party with me, don’t it?
From the juiced-box, the theme for the evening (even if Elton got the day wrong):