The Weekly Picture column

This week's picture features the Saints & Sinners bar located less than a 5 minute walk from our house on Tilden Avenue. This is one more bar on the list of bars I can't show my face in for a long, long, long time. There are other ones on this list, like the Phoenix Irish Bar in the Mission district of San Francisco, where my 23rd birthday was spent alone at the bar with beer and Tequila shots. After I almost returned all the items I bought from the bartender, I managed to get to a toilet and do it the right way. Later that night, I woke up at 5 AM on a filthy sidewalk in a Mexican SF neighborhood, because some guy was trying to get my money. He was nice though, not a gang member.

So, somehow, after searching up and down the area, I found my car and started driving back home. Oh yeah, I pulled over after a while to puke on the shoulder of the 101 South, and finally made it home safely. I never looked at that highway the same way since. There were other things I did that are just as bad, if not worse. The whereabouts are too many to list here, but I'll just say they are scattered all over this planet, from Kibbutz Na'an and Tel Aviv, to Amsterdam and California. And somehow, I always managed to make it home safely...

But, what happened in the bar you see in that picture is...well, let's just say I think this is the last bar to be added to the list.

Why was this night different than any other night? Well, first of all, to get the really juicy story, you'd have to ask my wife, or her father, or his new wife, or our neighbors Mark and Risa. Or the Paramedics on duty that night, or the LA Fire Department who were there too. Because, for the life of me, I just can't remember shit. And I usually remember, no matter what I've been drinking. But not this time.

I'll start from the beginning. Around 6 PM I decided to go grab a drink before it's too late. I came home about 15 minutes earlier so I didn't have much to eat at all. I stopped on the way there and got a chocolate croissant. I sat down at the bar and began surveying the mirrored wall of bottles. One Budweiser and a glass of Glenfiddich later, I see Nick at the other end of the bar. Nick The Greek, as he is now known in our household. Nick just moved back to Los Angeles and is a hard working middle class kinda guy. Nick loves Israel, has an Israeli cousin or something, and says zoobi all the time. In other words - he is the PERFECT drinking buddy for someone who doesn't want to think about the end of the night. For the next hour or so, we became best buddies. Nick even told me about his latest epiphany about getting older and not giving a shit about what other people think (he is just 52 years of age). It worked out great, since I am such good listener, especially when leaning against the edge of a bar.

Nick The Greek was downing Vodka Martinis and could hold his liquer much better than me, as you are about to find out. So, there I am chatting it up with this stranger, drinking more beer and more shots (I think I had some Brandy in there too, which was a BAD move -- a VERY BAD move). After getting drunk enough to realize I may have passed my limit, I paid the bill, and went to the bathroom to take a huge "throw me a life wheel, I'm drowning!" type of piss. Nick The Greek followed me, which meant that he followed me back to the bar, which also meant that he insisted on having one last Martini with me before he leaves. That last martini may very well have been the last push to throw me overboard. I walked out (if you could call it walking) and phoned my wife to tell her that I was about to embark on one of the most difficult, challenging and uncertain journeys. That's where my memory shut down for the night.

I woke up at about 7 AM, wearing my jeans, my shoes, and a hospital gown. I had a bunch of medical tapes on my arm, and of course - the splitting mother-fucking headache I ordered the night before. I was in the ER. I was freaking cold. I had lost my shirt, my phone and any knowledge of what the hell happened. That's when I heard someone say "Oh, he's awake!" and I looked around to find nurses, Dr. Eisner (Sarah's new best friend) and a reception telephone. I quickly called 'headquarters' and realized that Sarah didn't think I was dead (at least not anymore) and actually knew where I was - which is more than I could say for myself.

From here to there, I ended up getting a ride home with Rick and Rebecca (who were up most of the night making new friends under less friendly circumstances), And again, I finally made it home safely.
Luckily my wife didn't kill me either.

So, my friends, live long and prosper, and please, please - don't go drinking alone. I know I won't.

P.S - the complete version is coming soon...