it is drunk

a girl slid off a bar stool at Doyles and melted into the floor. her unsteady, lean-on-whatever's-within-reach hobble to the exit was in slo-mo and hysterical to watch. i put my hand on a table as i choked back a laugh. the poor thing had no clue. tomorrow morning she'll be 'sick'. i sat next to an off-the-boat Irish kid at the Behan who had 7 empty pints of Guinness in front of him lined up like clay ducks. he was counting and gulping and midway through #8 i asked: 'how can you get away with this and not be out cold?'. 'i'm tough' he squinted. as soon as he drained the last pint his head hit the bar like a brick. an older woman drinking giant buckets of cheap Merlot was ok until she ordered 'just one more tiny li'l glass'. her phrasing clear as day until, when i checked back, i got this: 'erm moumph frun grad ur'. she had crossed the slur river into Neanderthal. an octogenarian and Very Proper Lady in high heels, a sparkly blouse with exaggerated eye-liner (improperly applied and smeary) was on her way to the ladies room. a low heel cracked under foot. she grabbed a railing in the nick of time. a waitress asked if she was alright. 'i'm fine,' she insisted, 'just a wee bit tipsy'. after 'tipsy' paddled her way into the loo the waitress rolled her eyes: 'tipsy?! my ass. she's hammered!' funny how we pretend we're not destroyed when everyone else can see that we are. just try to convince a drunk he's been shut off for his own good. he goes ballistic. if they're cute you put up with the vomit potential in hopes of a score, but inevitably pretty becomes not so pretty and you make your way home alone. on the other hand, one lame night in a glitzy bar in Amsterdam called 'It' as in 'look at it, she's gorgeous!' i'm drinking and staring and hoping and worked up all at once in this Dutch playground crammed to the gills with the young and the hot. a skateboard hero with a watercolor moustache is so drunk he 's propped up like an abandoned doll. his legs hang wide, his arms weigh a ton, his hands are engorged. he slouches against a mirror wall, nursing a vodka. every thirty seconds he belches. you can tell because his cheeks puff out, 'bluh.' his lips are parted and slippery behind a puke pout, puke breath, puke skin. one chartreuse bubble floats sadly in front of his Novocain face. i want to rip his clothes off but i keep to myself. 'it' wouldn't go over big at 'It'. it is drunk.