Like, this, for example: This is what you get a lot of on New Years Eve:
Not that there's anything wrong with this until the day after you wake up and try to fucking comprehend what the hell got into you and your abysmal brain that said out loud: "The Plan": begin with overpriced dinner at some nasty place in Union Square with a bunch of women, (your date included), from Burlingame with beehive hairdos. At least that allows you a reason to begin polluting your liver with an $85 bottle of some shitty Cooks-like champagne. The same shit you could gobble up at BevMo for about 9 bucks a couple days ago.
Your date is getting antsy. And you're getting anxious. You haven't even finished the piss-poor of a salad and you're already down about two benjamins; meanwhile, first audible sound of Molotov cocktail emanates from Post Street. Cool. That'll impress her. What the hell were you thinking? I suppose a quiet dinner at home with some Netflix and wine was outta the question--no, you had to be a big shot didn't ya? I just stole a line from Billy Joel I know but it's become painfully clear that in addition to being royally screwed, I'm now very hungry and irritable. She's giving me that look now; like, why the fuck are we even here? But we stride forward. Remember, it's 1992. We're talking pre-twerking; no Billy Ocean; no Justin Bieber; Jan Wahl was relevant; Brian Copeland was funny; Tori Campbell could read a teleprompter correctly and Karel was walking the red carpet in La Brea.
Food arrives from the pimple-faced waiter dumb enough to be working NYE with a bunch of over-hyped yup-fucks; the proverbial bridge and tunnel crowd who think Pier 39 is cool and order a $27 shrimp cocktail. Always a great bargain on NYE. The steak comes and its about the size of a leftover half-eaten cookie at the KGO party. Hey, waiter, can we get a shot? Brain slightly waning and ready to leave the premises for that hotbed of civilization called the Embarcadero to view lovely fireworks with 400,000 whack jobs. Uh, can we get a cab? Easily the most ridiculous quest on this uber-stupid night --somehow we manage and Sinbad takes us through the labyrinthine Union Square corridor where shrieking drunk lunatics are attacking one another--how romantic, eh? I suddenly come to realize that I'm not getting any action tonight with my date even though I've forked out nearly $300 to get cheap-shit champagne, strip-mall food fit for a slob from the Emeryville Denny's, and enough aggravation to warrant a Dr. Phil Show.
I haven't even mentioned the multitude of cops, CHP, Sheriff's Dept. reps, assholes from Pittsburg with sideburns and the usual fat white guys in the streets wearing Ronnie Lott's jersey. Fuck the fireworks. Screw BART. I looked at my uptight Brenda, (she looked as if she wanted to be alone at some motel near SFO watching Thelma and Louise); I concurred. I told the cabbie, Sinbad, (not the comedian), to get us the hell back to Oakland asap. Another $75 bargain. For the amount of money I laid out I could have called a Kate Upton look-a-like and order dim sum.
So you wonder why I detest even the thought of going out on New Years Eve. I'll be at home, safe, sound, kung-pao chicken nearby with a pint of PBR watching Good Fellas, thanks very much and drive home safely.
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