Three tequila...floor

            In this city, called New York, where many major financial partnerships and career investments have probably been made in any one bar around the corner, mixing with the natives is key for any one involved or seeking a career in any business. This goes for artists of all forms as well. It's a rough job, that networking, especially when you've had one too many tequila shots and fishbowls filled with God knows what. Having my first Friday night free in months, I felt it might be a good idea to let loose a bit. I've spent too much time doing nothing and that had to change if I wanted to prosper in life.

            Overly dressed for the warm weather that came out of nowhere, from the time I left my cool apartment and set foot in Times Square, I decided I needed a wardrobe change if I didn't want to be walking around a sopping mess all day. Grabbing my best girlfriend, Erin, who also showed up wearing the same dilemma from head to foot, we hit the overcrowded stores in the square to redress. The second we walked into the nearest store, I took one look at Erin and pure horror stretched across our faces. It was a three story mad house of women tearing clothing off racks, hair whipping about and lines snaking through the racks leading to the dressing rooms and cash registers. Taking in a deep breath, we braved the sea of disaster in the name of fashion and dry armpits and jumped in.

            Two hours later, our ordeal was over and we hit the pavement running as far from the stores as possible and settled in to a Chevy's Tex Mex and ordered their biggest margaritas on the menu. Much better. After two of those bad boys and a shot of Patron, I was in no way able to have a decent conversation with anyone other than my equally inebriated friend sitting across from me. Foolishly, thinking I had finally escaped the dark cloud of my birthday, our waitress, whom must have overheard our conversation about my recent birthday, came out of nowhere and slapped a rather large and badly beaten sombrero on my head and I was suddenly surrounded by half a dozen singing waiters secretly hating every moment of this degrading situation. God bless them though. I knew they equally hated their lives right now too. As a waitress going on eight years, I knew exactly how much they hated being birthday singing waitresses. Erin chose to take a picture of my initial reaction of the situation, which I saw posted later on the Internet, and my face hid no trace of the disgust I felt. I was an open book to my inner anguish. Forgive me Chevy's staff, nothing personal, you all sang so lovely, honest.

            Our next destination of the night was Hoboken. The occasion: someone else's birthday party. One of top things to do on my bucket list is to travel as much as possible. Sadly, my monetary situation will only allow me to go as far as New Jersey at the moment. I didn't exactly have this year planned out. Hoboken was about a ten-minute train ride from Manhattan. I figured, I've got to start somewhere, why not New Jersey.

            Hoboken had the same feel to me as Cape Cod, Massachusetts, with a splash of urban flavor. As soon as you step out of whatever transportation brought you there, you can immediately smell the salty waters of the Hudson nearby, as well as lime scented bile permeating from the guy throwing up his margarita in the alley next to the tiki bar you just passed. Perfect harmony. The little town had a youthful energy with funky shops, hip bars and restaurants running along one major strip while brownstones gave it that city vibe you might find in parts of Brooklyn. Honestly, it was much nicer than I had expected and I hoped to visit Hoboken again, during the day. I wondered if it still looked as lively then.

            The good thing about drinking is that it really does seem to melt away all of your anxieties, inhibitions, and the stress that seems to cake onto you like mud on pigs living in a large city. The bad thing about drinking, however, is that the only thing you end up remembering at the end of the night is you, doing the running man in the middle of a crowded dance floor just so that you can score an XL cotton blend Coors Light t-shirt from the DJ. They make great pajama tops. Although, if everyone else around you is too sober for forget you exist the next day, you may finally have the fifteen minutes you always dreamed of, but you'll never want to show your face in places like little town, Hoboken, again.

P.S. Stay away from the blue colored fish bowls at Bahama Mamas, unless you want to end up doing The Worm under the disco ball. Had I finished mine, it would have come to that.