July 26th 2012
Well. There are 3 things you can do in the eye of a storm.
- Seek Shelter.
- Tell your loved ones how much they mean to you.
- Frolic in the streets of Brooklyn with a styrofoam cup of PBR in hand, waiting for a faux James Blunt to purchase juice from the neighborhood convenience store.
Indeed they went for the obvious choice, and it was apple juice to be exact. Rewind.
2 upper east side lassies, Olive and Charlie, decide they want to go on an adventure. An unplanned, unwarranted adventure…to a place where no one would ever even think to look for them…Uruguay? Too easy. Danville, Virginia? Too obvious. Brooklyn? Perfect.
They spent an undisclosed amount of time dressing the part of a Brooklynite. Floral dress? No. Groomed hair? No chance. Giving a fuck? Dream on. And so they were off. In green shorts, black flip flops and a look on their face that said “I’m definitely not from around here” while they completely ignored the gigantic, dark clouds lingering overhead. What are the chances that it would torrentially downpour within the next 10 minutes anyway? Apparently
By the time they reached their first destination, the aftermath was as follows:
- The devastating loss of one side of a gold shoe (R.IP., Janet. You looked so peaceful as you completely vanished into the 8 foot puddle on Berry street)
- 1 Shirt that attained so much water it grew 13 times its original size and in fact, surpassed Olive’s shorts. And Charlie’s dress that was soaked from the inside out showcasing her Casper the ghost panties for all of Brooklyn to see.
They waltzed through the Radegast Bier Garten doors with their ravishing new looks that brought their man candy agenda to an abrupt halt when they realized the stray dog 3 blocks down was in fact, having a better hair day ….1 liter of beer please…actually…make that 3.
As the storm was continuing to kick ass and steal shoes, Olive and Charlie shuffled over to a lone ranger in the corner of the bar, giant liters in hand. They laughed, they joked, they snapped pictures and finally the charming gentleman said “That’s awesome! Hey, also, this is my father’s seat and you’ve been sitting in it for entirely too long. So you should probably bounce.”…So far…so good…
After the friendly encounters at stop #1, it was only appropriate to see what quality characters were awaiting their presence across the street. A two step was performed on the way out the door. Very strongly influenced by the liters of beer. But that’s beside the point.
Charlie waltzed up to the Levees dive bar, signaled for the bartender and coyly said “I want 2 black labels…with free koozies…and a bowl of cheese puffs…”
Within 54 seconds the goods were delivered…and they ate more cheese puffs in that night, then the last 13 years combined.
Cheese puffs in hand, Olive and Charlie looked to their right. Yet another lone ranger sitting at the bar. Charlie scooted a little closer, offered him a cheese puff and (with half drunk eyes) whispered “Sup.”
Cue in Anthony the blacksmith.
Anthony was a local to the neighborhood. There by his lonesome. Dreaming of Frito Pie. What’s frito pie you might ask? Well. Per Anthony’s description it was “Cheesy goodness, deliciousness, yummy yummy yeah yeah okay.”
Perplexed, yet intrigued by his A. Conversation topic and B. Vague description, they inquired about the more specific ingredients to which he responded, “Cheesy goodness, deliciousness, yummy yummy yeah yeah okay.”
They had no idea they had signed up for such a deep conversation.
Surprisingly, Olive and Charlie still weren’t sold on the pie and as they turned to walk away (cheese puffs still in hand) Anthony swiftly ordered a Frito Pie for the upper east side visitors. Well, if you insist, Anthony.
Charlie went first…and last…tearing through the “Cheesy goodness, deliciousness, yummy yummy yeah yeah okay” concoction and with 3 bites left she looked up at Anthony and said “Why am I the only one eating this?” To which he responded “Because…you took my fork.”
And there she was.
Holding the one singular fork that was the only vehicle between Anthony and his beloved Frito Pie. She had no reaction. She looked straight ahead, with absolutely all emotion vacant from her face…fork…still in hand and said “Anthony you wouldn’t know it but I uh…I just orgasmed…” The fork was dropped. And they were out the door. Leaving Anthony frito pie-less.
They stumbled down the drenched streets of Brooklyn until they approached a hairy man outside of the bar and asked him if it was a good place to go. He said “Yes it is they have styrofoam cups of PBR and…” the door was shut. Olive and Charlie…were already inside.
After ordering their mammoth sized PBRS, Olive and Charlie flipped their wet hair back and moseyed over to the hairy man they had confided in before. He was distracted playing online bowling. Minor detail.
They introduced themselves to his surrounding friends. One who possessed a voice that sounded eerily like James Blunt. They’re lower east side boys, in the neighborhood to listen to hairy man play. Rehearsal was in 10 minutes, would we ladies, per chance, like to join?
We only met you like 36 seconds ago?
Let’s do it.
And they were off once again…PBRs…still…in hand, en route to the music rehearsal of hairy man and co. WAIT. James Blunt was thirsty. “I need a fucking apple juice.” Right on James Blunt…right…on.
Refreshed and no longer parched, hairy man, James Blunt, Olive, Charlie and the gang headed over to what they thought was a venue, perhaps even a bar. Potentially a garage.
Dreaming too big.
The first obstacle was to naturally duck underneath a steel, garage door that led into a gigantic warehouse of trinkets, stuffed pheasants and aged clocks.
Room #2. Unidentified objects covered by white sheets (something to be worried about now that I think about it) and a small man sitting at a desk, with only one glowing lamp acknowledging his presence.
“HEY YO WHASSUP SVEN ARE WE GOOD TO REHEARSE IN THE BACK?” Hairy man classily inquired.
Sven peeked over his glasses and seemed completely unphased by his creepy whereabouts and uttered an “okay.”
And so they continued their journey through antique mysteries and unwelcomed dust bunnies and finally, after yet another room of disturbing décor
they finally arrived into a room carefully decorated with a Spice Girls poster and an Elvis Presley towel pinned to the wall. Olive checked her phone. No service. How ideal.
Hairy and James Blunt rocked out for awhile, taking periodic breaks for apple juice and towards the end Peter, a member of the gang became restless and progressively more drunk. Suddenly, he grabbed the microphone, completely disrupted “rehearsal” and melodiously interjected with his self written love ballad “Noodles, Hoes and Armadillo Toes!” …Where has he been all my life?
After Peter’s unwarranted disruption to rehearsal and refusal to sit down, they decided to take his unruly behavior elsewhere. The Brooklyn…”bowl train”…to be exact. Who knew that Thursday’s were Brooklyn…”Soul train”…nights…they certainly, did not.
Within seconds every member of their new found group was free styling with transvestites. Not exactly where they envisioned their Thursday going…but whatever.
Bud lights were flying out of cups. Peter was gyrating. Hairy was ball room dancing…solo. And between all the debauchery and sheer randomness Olive and Charlie made an executive decision to quit while they were “ahead” and bid adieu to their rather successful night in Brooklyn, New York.
They ventured back to the “L” train and made an absolute scene in the terminal. They couldn’t take two damn steps without dancing like Charlie Chaplan.
They befriended two innocent bystanders and struck up a conversation about the Japanese economy, or perhaps that was just Olive…and boarded the timely train. All of a sudden, a man in a plastic, orange cape, rainbow headband (made out of tube socks)…and a saxophone, hopped on the train as well and began to play the shit out of the instrument. People were screaming, clapping, tipping. At one point he put 2 of his feet on the side of the train, held onto the top bar with another, and played the sax with one hand, completely horizontal, as he bounced up and down. This probably wouldn’t be a good time to mention that he wasn’t very good. But a dollar was forfeited regardless.
They departed the train, $2 poorer and collided with a high school friend of Charlie’s. Where there would normally be a hug and with a side of small talk… was a violent slapping match. He said hello. She slapped him across the face.
Olive sat there, slightly inebriated, with her left over cheese puffs and watched as the two slapped the shit out of each other and contemplated stepping in. But not really. The puffs were damn good. After their sentimental encounter, they made their final strides back to the upper east.
That night Olive and Charlie kicked down the door of their upper east side apartment and collapsed in bed. Satisfied, drunk and realized that they had a better chance surviving the storm than they would if they had ever tried to relive that night ever again.