So yeah. Saturday hiphopatcong's brother Chris got us into a party in Hoboken. So Pete and I got to hang out with some of our neighbors. I was really connecting with Chris and our shared love of vodka and Red Bull, until he whipped out sugar free Red Bull. WTF?? Pete complained about sangria, something he's been doing often lately. The apartment was amazing, overlooking Jersey City and lower Manhattan. A good crowd, a cool scene, good times. Some woman kept on trying to make conversation with me, but I acted like a deer in headlights and totally stammered, eventually spilling a drink on myself in nervousness. Like a flash she was cleaning me up and smiling at me, but I didn't do a damn thing and let her walk away. She continued to look over to me and smile while sitting alone, but I didn't detach myself from my friends and talk to her, so I'm a loser.
Apple martinis, sangria, red bull and vodka, vodka and tonics, all good times. Chatting with Chris's wife while he chatted with co-workers was great, we went over a lot of little things, she's quite cool. I was told this, but got to confirm it for myself. Chris drunk was nuts. Pete drunk, as always, was nuts. The two of them together drunk was insane. No one was safe. Pete chatted with Hiroshima girl, felt horrible the next day about possibly ruining a pair's evening, and asked a European's preferences.
hiphopatcong and I gave our host a realtor sign, and he introduced me to a number of people. It was the Italian festival in Hoboken, so we were treated to an amazing fireworks display made all the better by the great view from the place. I made plenty of jokes about the Palermos and pizza bagels to mark the festival. At some point I was wandering the streets, talking to fmrflyboy while drunk. After dozens of late night drunken phone calls, he owed me one. Pete and I went into a bar, didn't have a single drink, and left when I pointed out the party being cheaper. Somehow we got back to our place, I passed out on the floor, Pete passed out on the couch. hiphopatcong didn't take Pete's bed or kick him off the couch, and went home instead. I felt like I might get sick (something I never do), crawled to the bathroom, and slept on my bathroom floor.
Living with an alcoholic in Hoboken could be bad, and could be fun. I made it to EB the next morning despite not staying hydrated or taking multivitamins.
A fun night, all in all.
The next night, after both of us spent the day in pain, we walked through Frank Sinatra park where the festival was being taken apart.
Finally got Pete to see Fight Club, the movie that he of all people has needed to see. He, of course, loved it and has watched it once more while I was out. Good times.
Last night Pete and I were discussing his brother's work for the top secret military-industrial complex in the west. Teller's name came up, we discussed the various people behind the bombs, I explained the tentacles of Odessa, and he insisted that his brother met Teller and that Teller was alive. I refused to believe that Teller was alive, expressed amazement, and was shocked. Depending on when he died, Pete might have been wrong.
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