The fact that lately I am constantly constrained by my medical advisors to monitor my drinking (in order to switch alcohol for prescription drugs), confirmed my worst fear: I am an alcoholic surrounded by alcoholics. In the meantime I rediscovered that New Yorkers, who are more civilized than Americans, still do not drink, they do lines of coke. By the way, I am always amused when people pretend that if gay New Yorkers are slim it is because they walk everywhere.
There is this purely cultural white people thing in America that they can only effectively socialize with other human beings by getting tipsy in the very first moments of any interaction. Worse, it takes them at least five drinks (the definition of binge drinking) to be fully fun and inhibited. Finally, they require about seven drinks to be able to dance or have intercourse. They only live during their “happy hours”. The expression “to grab a drink” is considered a social activity similar to “watch a movie” or “go for a run”. Above all creatures, the gays are the ultimate drunk community because they actually value drunkenness and alcohol addiction as a sign of “coolness”.
On Friday, I had to leave early some friends of mine at Bistrot du Coin because, as they were getting more inebriated, my relative sobriety was clearly becoming an impediment to a fun conversation. At Vlada (definitely not a place to visit sober), I was seating on the couch with a bottle of Water when some fugly twink suggested that I should smile more. And, I only managed to go through le Souk (on avenue B) on Saturday by getting smashed on Sangria. Everybody who made it to Mr. Black on Saturday, woke up with a severe hangover but nice memories. Those who went to Nublu, only had a headache. And I ran my first 4 miles race, a step closer to rehab.