Tonight has not yet happened. 2010 has not yet happened. But this is what might have happened:
At the stroke of midnight I was nowhere near a girl and nowhere near mistletoe. I was at the other end of the roof terrace, vomiting over a railing. No one saw me doing it, and I didn’t tell anyone I did it. It was the first time I had puked in a long time, and I blame it on cigarettes.
I only smoke cigarettes when I’m really drunk. I hate them otherwise. Granted, I HAVE smoked cigarettes sober before, but it’s different when I’m sober. It’s a calculated decision. It’s me saying, “OK, I’m bored as fuck right now, so I’m going to smoke a cigarette. I know it’s going to make me feel like shit, but I don’t care — I want to get high.”
On Mina’s roof terrace I must have smoked at least 10 cigarettes. It was Rachel’s fault. The Marb Lights appeared before me as if on a conveyor belt, and I kept sucking them down. We weren’t really even talking — in fact, I think 50 percent of the time she had her back to me, but she still kept handing me cigarettes. This was after I had just gotten done chugging a bottle of champagne by myself in the bathroom. Why I brought it into the bathroom is a mystery. Why I decided to chug it is not.
It has always been assumed that if any kissing is going to happen on New Year’s Eve it’s going to happen at the stroke of midnight. This was not the case for me. I ended up kissing a girl named Cassandra (or rather she kissed me) at 9:30pm. I did not want to kiss her. She was not attractive and had a personality that reminded me of the face of a pug. Her laugh — high pitched followed by a guttural guffaw — sounded like a zebra getting punched in the stomach. She would also yelp and say, “Oh my God, I know exactly what you’re talking about!” after everything anyone said. At one point I ventured that I had been extremely constipated the week before just to see if she would say, “Oh my God I know exactly what you’re talking about!” but she was too busy paying attention to another conversation, one which involved the return policy of leather boots at Nordstrom.
When I walked out on the balcony to have my first cigarette of the night, Cassandra followed me. She had on a short black dress displaying pasty calves. The upper part of the dress had some lace that was less than flattering and reminded me of my Grandmother’s funeral. Before I could take a drag off the cigarette, she pulled me towards her and pressed her large red lips against my face. Not my lips. My face. Her lips were big enough to cover a decent portion of my face, and after she was done kissing me she tugged thoughtfully on my scarf and scampered back inside. It was the last time I would see her that night, though I would acutely remember the feeling of her lips on the area just beneath my nose when I vomited over the balcony railing a few hours later.
After vomiting, I made my way down to the street. It was 12:05 am, the fifth minute of 2010. I walked along Broadway in the general direction of my house, and vaguely wondered why I had gone to the party in the first place. I had talked to practically no one, drunk entirely too much, and gotten kissed by a girl who reminded me of a dog. The highlight of the night — by far — was walking home: knowing that it was over, knowing that my bed awaited me, and knowing that tomorrow, or rather today, I could start to forget my last night of 2009.
This entry was written by , posted on December 31, 2009 at 8:42 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, alcohol, master cleanse and tagged 2010, alcohol, bars, Capitol Hill, drinking, new year's eve, nightlife, partying, seattle, sex. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
This entry was written by , posted on November 18, 2009 at 1:42 am, filed under Capitol Hill, Ravenna, Uncategorized, master cleanse. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Rippin’ it
Dear Faithful Readers,
By last count there were roughly 42 of you. Why do I use the word “roughly” with the seemingly precise integer “42?” Well, it’s complicated, and you’re not a statistician. So don’t ask questions. The other day apparently there were around “60″ of you. 60! I don’t even know 60 people, so that made me feel pretty good. Actually, the thing that made me feel awesome was when I went to a bar the other night and a friend of a friend recognized me just because of the “blog.” I had never met this girl in my life. She asked me “How Hawaii was.” So as you can see, I’m already famous.
Fame has its downsides, though. I have to wear those hats with the really curvy bills pulled down tight over my eyes all the time so people don’t recognize me. That or really huge sunglasses. The other day at Chipotle some chick was harassing me for an autograph and she scratched me with her newly manicured nails. I screamed “How dare you” and scratched her back. Nobody messes with me when I’m at Chipotle.
Another fairly annoying thing about being famous is the paparazzi. These days everyone has a point and shoot camera, so everyone is a potential paparazzi (or paparazzette). So far nothing too bad has happened but I’m really worried that one of these days I’m going to be getting out of my car and someone’s going to take a really awful crotch shot and put it all over the internet. Right now I don’t have a car so I guess that’s not very likely to happen. But maybe some one will do it when I’m riding the bus. I take the 71 all the time.
In health news I have stopped drinking again ever since my and Darren’s trip to Ensenada. I’ve replaced the drinking, however, with gross amounts of junk food and frozen pizzas. Tonight I polished off a frozen Tony’s pepperoni pizza to myself, which is bad and clocks and at around 1000 calories but isn’t as bad as it used to be because their pizzas have gotten smaller. One of the reasons I haven’t been drinking is because I’ve had a cold, which I’ve been combating by ingesting around 20000 mg of vitamin c a day.
As far as employment goes, I’m still interning at El Extranjero. I’m confused because a lot of the time people there aren’t that warm to me. I mean, some of them are, but most of the people haven’t even introduced themselves. I think most of them look at me and think, “Oh, there’s that new intern. I’ve heard about him. He’s going to be huge,” and they’re kind of intimidated and it’s just easier to walk past my desk without really making eye contact. Or something.
In travel news the next Where’s Wetzler? trip will be this weekend, though to where I do not yet know. I might do it in the same format as the last one, i.e. post photos but never really reveal the location. Keep you guys guessing. Make you study those maps. Do you study maps? Study those maps. I was in the 8th Grade Geography Bee. I got out on the first question because I confused longitude with latitude. Study those maps.
Fondly,
Wetzler
P.S. Natalie Berry
This entry was written by , posted on March 2, 2009 at 12:51 am, filed under Capitol Hill, Uncategorized, master cleanse, the boot and tagged agoodreed, friends, seattle, seinfeld, uw, vancityallie, yobeat, your mother. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Though a bit late, Neil Cameron’s recent submission has won the Wetzlerville 2009 “Post a Comment From the Most Exotic Location Possible” Contest Extravaganza. Apparently he’s in Scotland right now drinking “7 different types of single malt whiskey” and probably watching Rob Roy on DVD and playing with a sword. Merry Christmas Neil, you are a man among boys. We in America (’Merca) salute you.
-Wetzler
p.s. I’m not joking when I say that Nancy was semi lit last night. I’ve never heard anyone play “Away in a Manger” with such gusto.
This entry was written by , posted on December 25, 2008 at 10:08 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, Central America, Chipotle, Ravenna, Song of the Day, Uncategorized, master cleanse, the boot and tagged wetzlerville 2009. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
This guy knows what’s up.
Today on Where’s Wetzler? we’re going to try a little experiment. It’s called: “Who can post a comment from the most exotic location?” This experiment was inspired by Champ Walston, a Where’s Wetzler? reader who posted a comment the other day all the way from Germany (unless it was just one of my friends messing with me). Champ, you’re a…nevermind, you’re probably sick of hearing that one.
Anyway, I realize most of you are in the Seattle area and have to attend those things you’re always talking about, Jawbs (sp?) or whatever, so you can’t exactly fly to Bhutan and post a comment from your laptop on the edge of a cliff. But just because you’re in Seattle and possibly at work doesn’t mean you can’t get creative. Take your laptop into the bathroom. Take it into the mailroom. Post a comment from the bus. Post one while driving across the 520 bridge — I don’t know, like I said: get creative. Bonus points and features in the follow-up blog (with your permission, of course) will be given to those who also send me a picture of themselves submitting said comments (markw32@gmail.com). Also, this whole thing is being held on the honors system, so Barry, don’t post a comment from your basement in Ravenna and try to tell me you’re in Cabo sipping a piña colada next to a scantily-clad coed.
The winner of this contest gets a beer on me (Readers’ note: Winner responsible for transporting Wetzler to and from drinking location if located outside Seattle area).
Post your comments by five o’clock tomorrow for consideration. Good luck!
-Wetzler
This entry was written by , posted on December 23, 2008 at 1:42 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, Central America, Chipotle, Ravenna, Song of the Day, Uncategorized, master cleanse, the boot and tagged barry coed, bhutan, colada, where's wetzler experiment. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Hey guys—Chaunce here.
Well, less than two weeks left and then I’m peacing the fuck out. Mexico? The Caymans? Bora Bora? Who knows? All I know is that I’m out of here. Oh, by now you’ve all probably seen the picture above which means you’re all laughing at me. “Oh my gosh, he’s wearing a little hat with tassles on it. That’s hilarious.” You’re right. Hilarious. This is how he dresses me when he’s looking for a good time.
Anyway, here at the Wetzler household they keep going on and on about the weather, calling it “Deep Freeze” (some term Nancy picked up from KIRO 7 news), and talking about how the cul-de-sac has turned into a regular “Wetzler Winter Wonderland.” Blech. If I had the capacity to vomit I would totally spew all over Nancy’s hardwood floors and then taunt her when she was cleaning it up.
To be fair, though, I am a little bit sick of the snow myself. I mean, it’s not like I enjoy getting dressed up like a girl just so the guy’s toes don’t freeze. But what are you gonna do about it, right? I mean, if I could talk to God I’d be like, “OK God, enough already with the snow.” But I can’t do that. I’m just a boot.
Anyway, I hope you’re all having a wonderful holiday. I personally—aside from being attached to an assclown—am having a wonderful holiday and am really looking forward to New Year’s. This guy hardly ever takes me out anymore and I’m really excited to get out on the town and chase some tang. Remember that wrist brace I mentioned from Barnes and Noble a few blogs back? Well imagine that times a hundred. Naked.
Yeah.
Merry Christmas.
-Chaunce
This entry was written by , posted on December 21, 2008 at 3:07 pm, filed under master cleanse, the boot and tagged achilles tendonisis, achilles tendonitis, boot, chauncey, gisele, jereme rogers, tom brady, walking cast. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
I am eighty years-old. Or at least sometimes it feels that way. Yesterday my afternoon my activities consisted of the following: sitting in a chair and staring out the window, reading, listening to old Limelighters records (a trio popular in the 60’s), making eggnog lattes, and watching Jeopardy!. Jeopardy! was the highlight of the afternoon, although staring out the window came in a close second. And this was at a friend’s house. Imagine the torpor and skull-crushing boredom that happens when I’m alone.
After Jeopardy! I made my down icy sidewalks to the bus stop on 65th and 25th to catch the 71 down to the ferry. Except the 71 never came. I stood there for fifteen minutes in the blistering cold talking on and off with a group of drunk college kids who over the course of our our wait asked me: what time the bus was coming, if I had a lighter, what book I was reading, and how far I was along in said book (they were very thorough drunks). Eventually they had enough of waiting and left, and I decided that if I ever wanted to get to get home I would probably have to leave, too. So I started walking. And this is when my toes got cold.
If you’ve ever worn a walking cast you know that it is by no means a sealed and insulated entity. Indeed, as far as the toes are concerned, the air can come and go as it pleases, which is a problem when the temperature dips anything below fifty degrees. Last night it was probably eighteen degrees. Tops. And the only thing I had between my bare skin and the elements was a thin layer of sock.
I started walking down 65th and immediately ran into difficulties. I am not very adept at walking in the boot in the most optimal conditions, so each step on icy terrain is a veritable leap of faith. Going down the hill to 20th I almost ate shit at least four times, due in large part to my compulsive checking over my shoulder (like a wild-eyed fugitive) to see if the bus was coming. Of course it never was coming, but I kept checking, risking forays onto patches of ice, simply because I knew how much I would hate myself if the bus came and and the only reason I failed to get on because I was caught between stops waddling around in my boot.
By the Pied Piper Alehouse my toes were really starting to hurt. The rest of my foot felt normal but my toes felt like they had recently been introduced to the business end of a framing hammer. I was completely convinced that I had developed frostbite. I mean, not like Jon Krakauer Into Thin Air type shit, but close. Meanwhile, I’m huffing and puffing because I’m an out of shape bastard and haven’t walked this far in weeks, so the rest of my body is starting to overheat. My face—rosier than an out-of-work fisherman’s—expelled steam in great quantities from the nose and mouth. My torso and hands were a sweaty mess. Why couldn’t my body take some of this excess heat and transfer it down below?
Finally, I make it up and over the hill that leads to 15th, and lo and behold, there’s the 71, sitting just in front of the bus stop like it’s been there all night, taunting me for having the gall to think it would actually drive all the way out to 35th. I mosey up to the driver and ask him what the deal is and he tells me that they’re on a limited schedule, a.k.a. they service two-and-a-half stops about once every four hours. Well, maybe not that limited, but you get the idea. I get on the bus where it’s warm and wiggle my toes to make sure they’re still somewhat functional and that I shouldn’t be heading to Swedish instead of to the ferry. I think they’re OK.
Close call, though, for an eighty year-old.
-Wetzler
This entry was written by , posted on December 20, 2008 at 9:43 pm, filed under Uncategorized, master cleanse and tagged 71, another roadside attraction, ice, king county metro, snow, storm, transit. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
“Happiness, is a warm…burrito (bang, bang, shoot, shoot).”
After three days of feasting on nothing but my own self-loathing, I finally had solid foods today. They say you’re supposed to come off the Master Cleanse gradually—orange juice, then some soup, then maybe some cooked vegetables—but I went straight to Chipotle and ate a burrito the size of a child. Then, to top it off, I went to my friend Dan’s house and drank a mug of eggnog mixed with two shots of espresso. Great combo, right? Burrito and eggnog? This Master Cleanse has really led to a healthier me. Anyway, the point of this is that after not really having er—um—a bowel movement for three days, I am terrified about what is going to happen in the little room with the white seat tomorrow. Maybe I should go in there with a stick to bite on, or something.
In other news, there is going to me a massive feast/cocktail party/pre-funk/slip ‘n slide/body shot party at Darren Berg’s house in Cap Hill tomorrow. I am pumped. You are pumped. We’re all pumped. I think I’m going to show up wearing stripper heels and a mu-mu. Maybe some of those big bug glasses that all the chicks are wearing these days, too. Darren if there is Gold Strike at the party I am going to leave.
-Wetzler
Tomorrow on Where’s Wetzler:
As Promised: Naked Photos of Chauncey
This entry was written by , posted on December 12, 2008 at 2:02 am, filed under Chipotle, alcohol, master cleanse and tagged chauncey, Chipotle, gold strike, mu-mu, stripper heals, walking cast. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
Keep hitting refresh to check out the video below, and also take a second to help me with this dilemma: I’m thinking about putting Where’s Wetzler on Facebook to drum up readership. The only problem: I hate Facebook. Your thoughts?
This entry was written by , posted on December 11, 2008 at 2:49 pm, filed under Capitol Hill, master cleanse, the boot and tagged beyonce, facebook, going public, master cleanse. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
“Mark, your father is outside barbecuing a flank steak and I’m just about done with the mashed potatoes. Would you come downstairs?”
I say nothing. Garlic, coriander and rosemary waft upstairs as if bee-lining for my nostrils. I hear my mother say, “Ouch! That’s hot,” as she pulls garlic bread out of the oven.
“Steak’s done!” exclaims my father proudly, closing the sliding-glass door behind him.
“Mark, will you please come downstairs? We’re about to eat.”
I stay silent. Has she forgotten? Is she doing this to torture me?
I hear footsteps making their way towards the bottom of the stairs. The footsteps start up the stairs.
“Mark, your father has just cooked a delicious flank steak and we’ve got mashed potatoes and garlic bread and sal — oh wait, you’re doing that stupid cleanse. Well, have fun with your lemonade!”
She giggles as she scampers down the stairs. “I got him good,” she says to my dad.
“Ha ha! What a douche bag!”
“Yeah. Let’s eat. I’m starving!”
End Scene.
This has become my life. I’m sick of it. I’m done. The Master Cleanse is stupid. It’s not healthy. Not consuming protein is not healthy.
I’ve made it past the hard part—the “three days”—and I’m not stoked. I’m not “energetic”; I don’t feel like I’m eighteen again: I feel hungry as shit and irritable. I want to stick my head into the refrigerator and bite into a block of cheese, or go to Safeway and steal a bucket of General Tso’s. I want to get in the drive-through line at McDonald’s and spend five minutes ordering two of everything on the menu. I want to go to Thai Tom’s and guzzle peanut sauce. I want to inhale—literally breathe in—a bag of Doritos. I want food!
Which is why, tomorrow, at 11:00am PST, I will eat. Or more accurately: I will eat soup. And it will be wonderful. And please don’t call me a quitter, because I am not quitting. I have conquered the three most difficult days in the Master Cleanse program—have eaten no solid foods for three days—and now, having proven my worth, will resume my normal habits in the name of sanity and joie de vivre.
“And on the fourth day he said, ‘Let there be Chipotle.’”
-Wetzler
Tomorrow on Where’s Wetzler?:
Master Cleanse Day 4 Video Update and Final Recap
plus
Boots Gone Wild!: Naked Photos of Chauncey
This entry was written by , posted on at 1:06 am, filed under Ravenna, master cleanse, the boot and tagged bar rafaeli, beyonce, gisele, master cleanse, tony tave, wetzler. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.