Shannon took this photo of me in my little Alphabet City studio. That's about half the apartment. It has everything—bed, desk with cable modem and powered speakers, table for eating (wait, people eat at tables, not their desks?) small closet, tiny kitchen, bathroom strangely complete with bidet.
Shannon talked about New Year's Eve a little on his blog. I was disappointed he didn't go into more detail but his blog is more succinct than mine. Maybe some other time he'll talk more about his adventures in constipation. I could see what the problem was. The place he was staying had a bathroom with no door. It opened onto the kitchen which opened onto where someone else was staying. My studio may be small but at least the bathroom has a door.
Looking at the large place that Shannon is staying made me laugh. We both commented that my entire old Avenue B place--which was two-bedrooms and not small by East Village standards--would fit in part of the main room where he is staying. Then we recalled the time I found regurgitated meat in my sink before going to work.
It was the early 90s. Maybe 1993. Maybe '94 or '95. I forget. Shannon, Ashley, and another guy were up from Austin for the comic book convention. It was January, which is a stupid time to risk having a convention in New York, though maybe global warming has fixed that because the same sort of disaster hasn't really happened again.
The convention was totally snowed out. Almost no one showed. I can't remember if KISS made it or not; they must have been Marvel's guests, I think, since it was during our seriously goofy Marvel Music phase.
One night we all ended up going out for steak. I went home--after all, I had a job--and Shannon and Ashley went to Vazac's Horseshoe Bar (a/k/a 7B by people better with addresses than with names).
They drank a lot.
Then they drank some more. Bars close at 4 here.
On the way home, they got lost. Which is really bad, since my place was on Avenue B and 13th, and Vazac's is on Avenue B and 7th. It's extremely difficult to get lost here.
Then Ashley made snow-angels. Face down.
Then they came in.
And in the morning, I found regurgitated meat in my sink. I left it. Brushed my teeth in the shower. Called at 11 and woke the guys up.
Turns out that Ashley had been sick after all that alcohol. Shannon was jealous that Ashley was vomiting into the sink, because that meant that he "would not have a hangover." He pushed Ashley over so he could try to vomit himself. Ashley then continued what he'd been doing, but into the sink.
Ashley was really embarrassed. Shannon thought it was funny. I thought it was pretty funny too.
When I got home later, the bathroom was cleaner than it had ever been. Thanks, Ash!
5 comments:
Ah yes, the regurgitated meat. I remember that. I was one of those poor souls that flew in for that convention, remember? Think I stayed with Babcock as I recall. While his bathroom did have a door, it actually hit my knees while sitting on the throne. Ack!
It was a big convention for gross bodily function stories, as I recall. And I think you and Babs were at Vazac's at the next booth that same night...
Your studio is adorable! Very cozy.
I have seen pictures from that night. They exist!!
Let's not discuss my stay at your place, where I drunkenly left the door open. :P Sorry about that.
Chip
In those days, leaving the door open all night could have gotten us killed.
Now, the worst that would happen is that some bright-eyed youngsters would mistake it for an innovative new real estate technique: the Midnight Open House. Bleary-eyed, I'd waken long enough to tell them that their real estate agents are lying to them and that real estate DOES go down, that now is NOT a great time to buy, that they really should try reading newspapers and business magazines before dumping their parents' life savings into the East Village. But they wouldn't be able to hear me over their iPods and all would be waving $400,000 checks in my face while I tried to go back to sleep.
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