Whining and dining

I come home from work and the fucking cable box is dead. It went completely black, no hint of a little green light next to the power button. I want my VH1. How can I unwind properly without watching trashy celeb reality TV?

Sean is out at some show with Darren, and my sister doesn't want to go out because she is "already in my pajamas..." click, hang up on her. What else can I do? Read a book? No. Clean? No. There's only one option left. Pick up a bottle of wine.

Turns out our posh wine store, The Greene Grape, is closed. Since when does our wine store close before 9pm? Outrage. Where are those California schmucks when you need them? This leaves me with only one other option - the ghetto liquor store down on Fulton Street.

No way I can buy wine in the ghetto liquor store, it has to be the real deal. So I pick up a tiny bottle of vodka, Absolut, to stay true to the Swede that I really am. Small, so that I won't feel guilty.

Now all I need is tonic water, diet tonic water. So that I won't feel guilty. On my way to the corner store for tonic water (diet) I unexpectedly make a right turn into the tiny, dirty, Indian fast food store that has a psychedelic smoke-machine and a stoned Indian man who talks about global warming, behind the counter. No one else is in this place except for me, my vodka, and stone-head. I hear my voice order the spiciest chick-pea & spinach thing they have, and after 10 minutes of global warming and me shifting from one foot to the other, my dish is in a brown bag and I'm heading for tonic water. I bet I'm the only person who is not a cab driver who has ever set foot in that Indian place (not to sound prejudiced).

I'm at home, my nose is running from the spicy Indian food that I wash down with vodka and diet-tonic. This is what happens without VH1.