Not Hooked On Hookah

I have no idea what the name of the place was, but Saturday night, the Baton and I and several new friends ended up at a hookah bar.

Now I’ve smoked my share of marijuana over the years, but this was my first experience with a hookah in my mouth. I don’t think I’ll be rushing back for a return engagement any time soon.

There were five of us, and we ordered two hookahs, one mango flavored and the other raspberry flavored. (A math degree is not required to know that three female opinions always outweigh two male voices.)

Basically, when you were done sucking in the smoke, you pushed it out of your nose or mouth, then passed the hose to the person sitting to you’re right, then waited no more than 20 seconds before the other was handed to you. These steps repeated themselves for at least 40 minutes.

If I’d ever treated a weed-smoking session like that, I’d be high until Thursday. The 31st. Of August.

But this was not weed, thank God. By the time we were done, I was not disappointed to leave, and once we got outside, I joined Madelaine in feeling ill. She was worse off than me because I’m a loser with a tolerance for putting ugly intoxicants into my body. Did I mention we began drinking at about 3 p.m. at an art show at PS1 that day? Did I also add that it was past midnight at this point, and seldom throughout the day were we without a drink in hand? In case I didn’t, you now have all the facts needed to arrive at the important conclusion that I was pretty fucked up.