A Drunk Finally Gets A Chance To Whine
LAST night found Alex Balk, "blogger," drinking with his cock, My Cock, at Old Town, a classic tavern in the Union Square neighborhood here. Half the bar was shrouded in shadow, but Mr. Balk was illuminated by the red glow from the neon sign overhead. This seemed fitting, given that Mr. Balk had just turned red after reading a New York Times "A Night Out With" about writer Stacey Grenrock Woods, erroneously described, as the photos here show, by the paper's website as being written (in the third person) by Stacey Grenrock Woods.
The article's tone was both knowing and earnest, using standard self-deprecation in an attempt to deflect the charges of self-aggrandizement that the bizarre arrangement was sure to elicit.
"What the fuck," said Mr. Balk, an appallingly grizzled 34-year-old, as he knocked back shot after shot of Wild Turkey. "Are they fucking kidding with the shit? Is it supposed to be post-modern? Does she know someone there?"
Bitter disappointment on the agenda this evening: Mr. Balk hadn't eaten all day, and was making progressively less sense.
"I see you've got a little vomit on your shirt," said Mr. Cock, a shaggy phallus, noting his host's disheveled appearance.
"No chunks, at least," Mr. Balk said with a hiccup. He had emerged from the restroom with a familiar token of minor weekend inebriation: a large trail of toilet paper stuck to his shoe. He delicately—inasmuch as anyone with hands trembling the way his were—pulled it off and offered it to Mr. Cock.
"Here, Cock," Mr. Balk said. "Wipe yourself with it the next time you get excited." Mr. Cock recoiled as if the paper contained naked photos of Ann Coulter.
Over drinks, Mr. Cock reminded Mr. Balk of another literary annoying aspect of Grenrock Woods' self-penned PR piece: Her not-so-subtle suggestion that people might want to read the July issue of Playboy, which has some nude shots of her in it.
"Raza deal wizzat," Mr. Balk retorted. "Y'neverd see naked piczures a me." ("Who would want to?" asked Mr. Cock. The question hung in the air, until Mr. Balk's stomach materialized atop the bar.)
Afterward, the group was escorted to a street corner, where Mr. Balk found a few comrades sitting around a half pint of Georgi vodka. In an slow, deliberate attempt at sounding sober, Mr. Balk said: "Sip, please?"
A few rounds later Mr. Balk was beckoned home by another impending day at the blog office, and the emptiness of the bottle. His streetmates asked what kinds of hopeless posts he'd phone in the coming month. "Cause your whole fucking July was all Murdoch, Murdoch, Murdoch," one noted.
Mr. Balk slouched. "No fucking clue," he said. "Probably will make some crappy parody of the Stacey Grenrock Woods thing in the Times. And who knows? Maybe new job come soon." Puking copiously, he admitted, "More posts by My Cock."
"Blearrragh," he added.
Mr. Cock stood silently at attention, a single tear dripping down his cheek.
[Update: No really! It's just that the website said she wrote it! The paper has the real author's byline and all, no need to crucify her. Jeez, MONDAYS.]