Traditionally speaking, the night before Thanksgiving begins the Holiday Drinking Season. If you live in the northern suburbs of New York City as I do, and a DWI isn't on your Santa short-list, this means that sooner or later you will likely end up on a Metro North train in the wee hours of the morning. As I begin to bring the 31 Holi-Days series in for a landing, I thought back to a series of texts I sent Rhea from the train home on the night before Thanksgiving. Her response to one of these, make sure you take notes - I want a story, may well have been one of the impetuses for the entire series. Having realized that while thinking about it all last night, I'd be remiss if I didn't feature my birds-eye reporting on drunken jackassery somewhere in the series. Without further ado:
11/24/2011 ~ 1:53 AM
Just my luck: this is clearly the "bro train".
Mass exodus @ Tuckahoe! I give thanks for this.
Or not: bros replaced by tone deaf drunk chick singing that Party Rockin' song. Everybody gonna have a bad time...
Leftover bro to bad singer: "Shut up. You suck." Amen, douchebag.
Drunk chica now caterwauling en espanol. Next stop White Plains [my stop -ed]. Different bro trying to pick up chica now. Like sands through the hourglass...
Speaking for myself, I did not become a participant in this year's Holiday Drinking Season until last night, when an absolutely amazing time at karaoke was had by myself, Rhea, her brother Alan and his wife Kristina. (Apologies to anyone who actually may have heard me sing in public.) You'd think that a random Wednesday between the holidays would make for a less colorful train ride this time around, and you'd be right...but only by two texts.
12/29/2011 ~ 2:31 AM
On the train. Totally listened to "Private Eyes" via Callin' Oates while waiting. Had a great time with you & bro and sis in law tonight!
Overheard on train home: "I've had way too many shots for this shit." Girl, in response, starts singing "Happy Birthday." Interrupts herself halfway through, though: "Fuck you, bro." Priceless.
I wish this train didn't smell like vomit. Next stop White Plains, thank god.
I can only begin to imagine what I'll be furiously tapping into my developmentally delayed smart phone on the way home on Saturday night.