“One pubic hair is stronger than the Brooklyn Bridge” and other things I heard this weekend

Sunday night, my childhood friend-turned-college friend-turned-forever friend and I rode the subway home from a weekend spent keeping up with college. Revisiting our old stomping grounds and senior friends coming up on their last semesters, we were met by rain, snow and shame as everyone around us celebrated some semi-formal/the last full weekend before finals. We, on the other (old) hand, were just basking in a much-needed break from the “real world” and Fireball’s year-long reign as Iona’s drink of choice.

Somewhere in between the Danza Kuduro dining room dance session, a shot of rum/paint-thinner from somewhere un-American and two visits from the cops (one of which placed more cops in the house than there were actual people), we felt at home. Sure, it hurts a little more waking up on a couch at 22 with just your jacket as a blanket but at least we weren’t this guy:


Reminiscent of October’s Homecoming blackout, we spent the weekend double-fisting Bud Light Platinums and mixed drinks that dance along the line of legal limits, Saturday morning reserved for bougie brunch. We pieced together our Fridays sipping sangria as Shannon told us all about the throat she said she’d slit and the girl who called her basic by calling out her center-part. That night we took an oath to be the oldest in the bar (not counting the townies), put our backs against the rape-wall and danced like the world was ending. Unlike Homecoming’s 4 a.m. phone-in order to the diner from bed and the barefoot trip out the door, in the car and up the stairs into the diner that followed, I ended up housing a cold slice of Specs pizza while a townie two tables down called us poor.

“Yo, we’re fighting about hopscotch here,” said one random to our complete confusion and Ryan’s complete lack of self-restraint. We were busy having our own fight about a Jamaican beef patty.

The weekend gets weirder.

Rewind to Friday, post-drunken family photos at the first bar, mid-bathroom trip at the second as we’re scolded by our favorite bartender for breaking her number one rule about bathrooms.

“NO MORE THAN ONE IN THE BATHROOM AT A TIME,” she yelled six or seven times, my girlfriend’s ass still pants-down and firmly planted on the seat – door wide open. Like a disappointed parent, she promised she still loved us and swore she’d never send us packing. We were given a “get out of jail free” card so she could see how far she could push our livers, Instagram our reckless rendition of “American Pie” and ban Brendan for (likely) life. What started as a pregame-party called “family cookies” with one too many games of “Fuck You Pyramid feat. wine” (everyone fucking Jen) had led us here — and we wouldn’t have had it any other way. This was a signature senior Saturday with friends turned family (best friend-bartender/seductress Silkie included).

We left long before closing time but friends that braved the bar a little longer say her parting words at 3 a.m. were, “You know, one pubic hair is stronger than the Brooklyn Bridge.”

They all agreed and called a cab. They’ll be back next Saturday.

Fast forward to Sunday night, my girlfriend and I en route to reality. The R-train doors opened wide at Atlantic Avenue as we silently regrouped to welcome a wary train guitarist with dirty hair and perfect timing. Cue the acoustic cover of Green Day’s “Time of Your Life.” We looked up, glancing first at him, then at each other. We broke our five-stop silence only to ask, “Is he fucking kidding?”

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