My dream, however, is much less ambitious than Dr. King's: I have a dream that this day this office will rise up and live out the meaning of its "national holiday": My boss shall not show his face this day as he did not show it Thursday or Friday of last week.
Unfortunately, my dream will probably go as unrealized as the good Reverend's. But until then, I thought I'd give my regards to cyberspace. As yesterday was my boyfriend's birthday (said boyfriend shall, for the purposes of this journal, be referred to by his nickname: the Monkey King), this entry will be dedicated to introducing you to the more ridiculous side of his personality.
For his big day we had a lovely little party, the end of which involved him and some of his more impressionable mates reverting to approximately age 15 and doing keg stands. For those of you unfamiliar with this glorious tradition, it involves holding either side of the keg and being lifted into something resembling a headstand above said keg while a friend pumps a beer into your mouth that both tastes and resembles insecticide. If you've never attempted one, and don't hold your short term memory all that dear or need a rude update on the contents of your stomach, I recommend it.
The fact that I'm here at work (a law firm whose name we shall, for the purposes of this journal, modify only slightly to Bullwinkle & Bullwinkle, LLP) attests to the fact that I had what I consider the good sense to avoid the keg stands. That doesn't mean that this morning was pleasant, though. I'm sure by the end of the day I'll be taking my tenth cup of coffee intravenously. Had I done a keg stand, I would have required a shot of adrenaline and difibrillation to even get out of bed.
The Monkey King, however, could play on at least a minor league keg stand team. Though he really doesn't drink that much any more, there was an era in recent memory where his well-defined levels of drunkenness were the subject of much amusement and anxiety at our gatherings (and more than a few bets). These levels (which are often separated by a single drink and tend to resemble, both in their overwhelming nature and element of surprise, tsunamis) are as follows:
Level 1: Wobbling. As a very tall man, the Monkey King tends to slump and lumber in the best of times. Early in the drunkening, however, he begins to have the coordination of a marionette being operated by a committee of Parkinson's sufferers. The beer spillage from such perambulatory dysfunction has been known to exceed 80,000 cubic liters and may be hazardous to those attempting to ford said spillage by automobile.
Level 2: Cheerleading. The King, rendered excitable by his libations, begins to notice he is the most drunk person in room. As in the case of last night, he encourages (or coerces) his fellows in drinking more on the grounds that they are "dropping the ball on the whole partying thing, man".
Level 3: Emoting. It is on level three that the fate of the night rests. Having successfully lubricated everyone in a six block radius, The Monkey King may be riding a crest of euphoria. In such cases, level three is characterized by statements such as "Thisss's da bess party ever. You guys're soooooooo great," "I love all of you soooooooo much," and "I wanna kiss you soooooooo bad". Hugs, high fives, and kisses may ensue. However, on occasion his cheerleading irritates and (due to its effectiveness) disinhibits certain individuals who shall remain nameless (and of course are not writing this journal) and the party descends into madness faster than a Joseph Conrad hero. One particularly spectacular example occurred on a subway car after a long night of drinking and involved him saying, in what I admit now was probably the utmost innocence, "Could you let me finish my own stories in public next time?". My response was probably a wee bit over the top, but I had been cheerleaded far beyond my capacity and simple snapped "Oh yeah? If I'm so annoying why don't you just get a new girlfriend!". Because we were deep in stage three, the King was unable to resist my baiting and emoted all the way back so loudly people left our subway car until he finally walked out a stop early and told me to "go the fuck home and fuck myself and see if he fucking cared, fucking bit-["Stand clear of the closing door, please"]".
Level 4: Adventuring. Too much emoting and eventually the King needs some air...and some potato chips...and some cigarettes...but not that kind, the Khazakstani handrolled kind they sell for $22.50 a pack at this store that might or might not still exist in New Jersey. Oh, and there's a great pizza place right near there. Pizza sounds good, right about now, doesn't it? And another beer too. Hey, let's go meet that friend of mine you call "that hipster buttface" who always stares at your tits at that shady, overpriced bar in his totally inaccessible, crime-ridden neighborhood. And let's ride bikes there. So what if it's snowing! Live a little.
Level 5: Fugue Stating. I am usually not in a position to comment on, or even remember, the events of level 5, but I can tell you they are pretty uniformly bizarre. The most innocuous level 5 evenings end with what we in the fine borough of Queens refer to as "getting Coned". This is when, while drunk and riding the N/W train back to Queens, one falls asleep and wakes up in Coney Island, about two hours away, often during morning rush hour. Level 5 can have even more peculiar results: recently the King spent the entire night drinking with his friends (the aforementioned keg stand delinquents from last night's fete). When he was not in bed in the morning, I assumed he had gotten Coned and went about getting ready for work. When I walked out to leave, though, there he was: passed out completely naked and spread eagle on the living room couch covered head to toe in cuts and scrapes with an Indiana Jones themed porno ("Indiana Mack" - yes, folks, I'm serious) running in a loop on the television and a bottle of Astroglide on the table. I was mildly confused, to say the least, and no less so when, upon waking, he informed me that the last thing he remembered was falling into our rose bush while trying to climb in the window. I chose to ask no more questions, which I find is a good general policy when it comes to level 5.
By the time I dropped out last night, he was at Level 3, and I'm fairly sure by the fact that he was still there this morning that it didn't go much further. Some of you might think I'm either mean or unloving to be able to to provide the world so unflattering a characterization of my chosen mate. But I think it's a sign of true love (and yes, of course I love him) to be able to love someone for their...eccentricities, shall we say. No one is displayed to advantage when describing how they behave while drunk. Perhaps to even the score I will dedicate a later edition of Theoretical Fetus to the top five stupidest things I've ever done while drunk. That's assuming I can narrow it down to five.