nothing compares to cheap rum in nyc.

this was the first time I had ever gone into the city alone, rode the train in by myself, but I'm not complaining. for once, we didn't start drinking upon walking through the doorway; most likely because it was only 4pm. usually, I don't arrive to the city until 11:30pm, but I took off work for this night.

the street dogs show was at seven. amanda got 4 free tickets so we thought, "why the hell not? we like punk." we got there around 8, starry-eyed, hoping we'd miss the opening acts. well, we we wrong. the first band was ending their set and immediately, it was a strange setting. I've been to countless shows, but none came close to this one. the band had to be in their forties, all decked out in punk rock attire, the same punk rock attire from 1982, when they first started the band. most of the crowd had 40+ years of life under their belts as well.

irish drunks and dazed punx filled the majority of the theatre. there was a group of guys, shiny white heads, who looked like they were ripped straight from an AMERICAN HISTORY X scene, something I had actually never seen in person. I'll admit, I was a bit fearful.

by the time the street dogs took the stage, all the self-medication had dried up and worn off. at this point, we had all noticed this one kid, pacing around the floor with empty eyes. he was weaving in and out of people and had a half-dread, thrift shop look going on. he was intrigued by nothing and everything. now there is no doubt in my mind (or his) that he was tripping. every so often he would flash a smile and would quickly retreat to the back of the room. he was dragging his jacket behind him. it looked like he was enjoying himself though - I hope he was. the possibilities of what he saw are endless. endless. I just took an interest in him the entire night.

midway through the set, guitarist Tobe challenged someone to a drinking contest, which was a nightly part of the show. just like the song suggests, "Tobe's Got a Drinking Problem." now the opponent he chose looked like he had walked straight out of Malibu's Most Wanted - what a joke. the guy was well over 6 feet and well over 300 pounds, but his matching headband/jacket combo and missing tooth tarnished his threat level.

the skinheads were getting rowdy toward the end of the set. every other song was about drinking, so we left before the encore and did just that. the rest of the night was a standard, not-too-sloppy evening. high five.

NOW last night was fucking insane. out of sheer boredom and anticipation, we opened a fresh bottle of rum around 8 (probably a little earlier). the night comprised of classic blink182 singalongs, circle pits in the middle of the room, and multiple bowls (we got salvia, which was a big upset).

by 8:30, we were all a little tipsy, but we had no plans of going out. no parties were going on, but the best parties are the ones with 6 people anyway. so knowing us, we had more shots. more bowls. more shots.


"at this point in our lives, rancid is a guilty pleasure, accompanied by slurred singalongs."

that's how the street dogs would have wanted it anyway.

naturally, we reached new lows. but to us, "lows" refers to good times. I was giving "defeated hugs" at 9:08, meaning I was 5 hours ahead of normal schedule. I was out like a light before 1am and slept like a bitch.

I woke up to 14 inches of snow, but no regrets.