(((Disclaimer: always drink responsibly! Be safe out there, kids)))
One Dollar Pizza, Up in this BEATCH!
I didn’t so much exclaim it, as I was far too busy veraciously gorging myself, slamming that juicy, lushes piece of heaven on bread down the ol’ gullet. But somewhere my inner voice found a party horn and a disco ball, getting the house jump’n on the happy-train that was rolling blissfully across my pleasure sensors. Look, I’m not Michael Crichton; I don’t know all that fancy science jargon to tie your brain up with how it all works. I just know that pizza was damned good! It was a small Italian restaurant just around the bend from Washington Square. I spent a day bathing in the summer’s heat, watching this rich-kid, transient—who probably got tired of his dad telling him to put grandma’s oxy back in the cabinet and get a real job already—break dance around the central fountain. There were pot heads blithely sparking up in the open, there were homeless people, and there were art students pretending they were homeless people, panhandling the even richer students leaving NYU. It was wonderful! And then there I was, clad in a knock-off Insane Clown Posse concert t-shirt, threadbare Walmart purchased shorts, dirty old off-brand kicks, and probably brooding with resting fuck-off face trying to hustle street caricature draws for tips. I didn’t know my ass, from my easel back then, but I knew where the good Dollar Pizza was, and I knew where the beer was. When you are a working street artist in New York, that’s pretty much all you need to know.
I remember I had just finished the day making $100 On tips. I was pretty excited, and the blistering sun was waning on its final hours, so I called it a day. Trucked my easel and chairs on a collapsible hand cart to the pizza shop. Hadn’t eaten all day so I had me about four slices. For a dollar a hit, that shit was a drug. Then I went a little further on my way to this quaint little bar, you had to go down into a sub level entry, kind of like where everyone got killed in Inglorious Bastards. They had sports on the tube, and they had live entertainment in the back room. It was an Irish pub so I thought I’d get started with a double shot of whiskey. That night was featuring stand up comedians. The one guy was pretty entertaining. I drew a quick cartoon of him while he was working the crowd. He told me it looked like a Jewish Obama. It always looks like Obama. I wonder if Obama ever got a caricature and said, “ha! It look like Obama!”
Anyway, I got another shot. Then another, and another. Putting them down harder than Blodeuwedd and Gronw Pebr... that was a Celtic joke... you see, because I was in an Irish Bar... forget it; you’ll laugh later after you google it.
So after wandering off on a reverie about something I couldn’t begin to tell you what, I was suddenly waking up on my friend’s couch. The world was gone in a snap, and a new one had fallen hard on my head. I sat up feeling like a sack of sand and horse shit. What the hell happened last night?
Like a smart detective I referred to my phone, to hunt for clues. My screen saver had a picture of a smiling turd I must have left somewhere languishing at the bottom of a stagnant toilet bowl. I winced and recoiled. Then I laughed. Poop is funny, whatever! Sometimes I like to play pranks with myself when I get wasted like that.
I unlocked the screen and went to my photos. I catalogued it all in my photo album. Took the subway home: “A”train to Brooklyn. There I am with a crooked grin snapping selfies as a ninja turtle rat scurried on by in the background.
Then I was at my friends apartment; they left it to me for the weekend and I must have been bored after drawing. I was taking shots from on top the roof where you can see the shimmering skyline of the city. It was pretty cool. What was not cool is that I was standing near the edge brandishing a bottle of sickness. Who ever decided time travel wasn’t possible never knocked back a full bottle of Evan Williams on the roof of a friend’s apartment in Bed Stuy Brooklyn—all theses ingredients are necessary to bend space and time. Take heed, scientists, so you can act all omniscient about it later on your Facebook page.
I kept flicking the screen to see what all came next. I left the apartment! It must have been like 1 am. Not a good idea. There was another snapshot of me on the subway again. Then there was the Empire State Building. Did you know there is an excellent comic book store there? I do now! Then I was at the shoreline near the new World Trade Center. Then I was at the World Trade Center. A gloomily nimbus fog snaked around the then not yet finished shinny new tower. Had to photograph it. I also took notice to how dark and very much Alone I was. Not smart.
Then I was at a bar, remembering the abundant craft selection of beers they had. Then I was stumbling out again and on the subway. Brooklyn at that hour was not a safe place. But no one bothered me. No one hectored me, or even asked for money.
My head hurt trying to figure out how I managed my field trip unscathed. I then noticed that I was still wearing my raggedy ICP shirt, with the two infamous painted rap villains smiling crazily on the front. I wondered maybe if everyone just thought I was the psycho homeless person who needed to be avoided. That’s called a revelation!
Never drinking again...
That’s called a lie.
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