The Evidence

I wasn't really in the mood to go out last night. I had been tidying up my apartment and it had been a long week. I'm working on four different booze articles currently and that involves some extreme drinking. I could have used a night off.

Maria calls me at work (because that's how important it was) to tell me that there was a party at Cama, a bar very close to my house, where there would be one-dollar vodka cocktails. How could I say no to that?

So we get there and it turns out that it's a drag queen party raising money for them to attend Trannyshack London, and that it's not one-dollar cocktails but one dollar from each cocktail purchased at regular price goes to their fund. Oh.

Maria opened a tab at the bar and I was on my third gin martini when everybody else showed up. I vaguely remember Suppository Spelling and Kiddie and Princess Kennedy performing, and since it was at Cama they were performing eighties' songs. (At Cama they play so much eighties music you'd swear it was a theme bar.) Maria and Hunter left to go somewhere then they came back and she opened another tab. I don't think I had another drink at that point and I know I sure didn't need one because I was over-loaded.

I remember little after that but the evidence of foul play in my apartment is horrifying: two smashed martini glasses, the remnants of fried ravioli, and (this is a new one) a t-shirt in the toilet. What?

I didn't wake up until 10AM and that means I have only two hours to recover in time for a drinking function I have to attend at noon. You know, that's kind of okay because the hair of the dog is the only thing that's going to get rid of this hangover.