It’s ACL, Baby, Just Doin’ It My Way

My ACL adventures begin with a drive through what I think is a monsoon.  The dangerous driving conditions do nothing to deter El Dilector from texting me to encourage me to hurry—and oh yeah, to stop and buy some beer on my way. 

I arrive, with not only beer but wine and a bottle of Tito’s, to find El Dilector on his way back from the hotel bar, with the following party people in tow: Teeny, Sissa, El Paso, Smiley and Bloke.  Teeny and Sissa are sisters from Alabama and have just arrived in town for the Fest.  Owing to the driving rain, they’ve elected to try day-drinking with El Dilector and his crew instead. 

El Paso and Smiley are in town from San Francisco.  Smiley is from Venezuela originally, a fact driven home by El Paso’s observation: “He’s so Venezuelan.” I am trying to figure out what that means.  Meanwhile, El Dilector has taught Smiley the term “shit-storm,” as in, “That party last night was a real shit-storm.” I think the party the night before had something to with a topless girl lighting her boobs on fire with a couple of matchbooks, but it’s not terribly clear.

“ACL is bigger than…everything,” El Dilector declares as he opens a Lone Star.  I am searching the refrigerator for something to mix with vodka.  Looks like it’s going to be either creamer or fruit punch.  Fruit punch it is.

El Dilector, Bloke and I take our drinks to the balcony to gauge the rain situation.  Aaaaand still raining. 

“All the hookers at ACL are wet now,” El D observes.

“How many hookers go to ACL?” Bloke asks.

“I imagine a lot of hookers go to ACL.”

“You imagine a lot of things.  That doesn’t mean it happens,” Bloke points out.

“What is the verb form of hooker?” El D muses.  “To hook?”  We agree perhaps it is.

Back inside, we decide to take a photo montage of everyone in CB’s hat, which she left with El Dilector the previous evening.  Bloke is a master stylist.  However, we have a particularly hard time getting Sissa to look serious.  El Dilector is screaming, “Think of dead puppies!  Think of dead puppies!” This is indeed a sad thought but it makes all of us laugh uncontrollably, including our photo subject.

I make a face and set down my drink.  “This tastes funny,” I tell Bloke.

“Hold on—how old is that fruit punch you’re drinking?”

“I didn’t look at the label.”

Bloke holds me back.  “Stay here.  I’ll look.”

He checks the expiration date on the fruit punch and we both breathe a sigh of relief.  It’s okay.  “Then why does this taste so funny?” I ask.

“Um, perhaps because you’re drinking vodka and fruit punch?”

Point taken.

El D decides it’s time to move on to Side Bar.  The rain is really coming down, though, and we can only make it to Casino because I am part cat and can’t stand to get wet.  Inside, we grab a table at the front and order a round of drinks.  For some reason, El Dilector is sharing his passport with the table.  I think this is to impress Teeny. 

“You know,” Bloke says to me, “When I met your brother, he bet me that he’d been to more countries than me.”

This is hilarious to me, considering Bloke hails from England and probably saw more countries before he was five than El Dilector has ever visited.   El D is sure that number is 16…or maybe 18.

“I think she kinda likes me,” El D says, referring to Teeny.  “She’s analyzing my passport.”
Teeny is indeed perusing the passport.  Then I hear El Dilector explain that he grew up in Dubai.  And then there’s something about our dad being in hotel management.  This makes me laugh so hard I nearly fall out of my chair.  By the time I come up for air, El D has returned from a smoke break with Teeny. 

“We’ve made a decision,” he announces.  “We are going to be boyfriend and girlfriend for the next 36 hours.”  El Paso and Smiley have to scoot over so El Dilector can sit next to his girlfriend. 

I guess Teeny has a Rolex, because next thing I know El D is wearing it and trying to pose for photos with his girlfriend.  “GET THE WATCH IN THE SHOT!” he’s screaming.

“You need to pap them,” Bloke says.

“What the hell did you just say to me?  Pap smears are kind of a private affair.”

“Pap them—you know, take pictures like the paparazzi?” Bloke explains.

It’s pretty safe to say that Bloke and I are having some minor communication difficulties.

After several photos of El D and Teeny macking, which are kinda gross if you’re his sister, Bloke throws up his hands in frustration.  “I can’t work with these people.”

Surprise, surprise—El Dilector wants to move on.  “We go Irish bar, now!”  So we head over to Jimmy’s Irish Lair to cause some more trouble.  And trouble indeed begins almost immediately, as Bloke casually tosses El D’s credit card across the bar with a flick of the wrist.  Only it’s a dead shot for the trash can.  The two of them search through the trash can to no avail.  The bartenders are not too happy with this situation.

“Hey, this guy Bloke is English and y’all are Irish—doesn’t that mean you, like, hate each other?” I say helpfully.

Bartender J-One looks like he wants to murder both Bloke and El D.  “What the fuck are they doing?”

“Oh, they’re just looking for El D’s credit card in the trash can. I told them to take it outside.”  The boys are indeed carrying the black plastic liner to the back door.

They return, triumphant, but they smell like they’ve been playing with bleach.  I send them to the bathroom to clean up.  (How do these people survive when I’m not around?!)

Sissa joins Bloke and I at the bar for shots.  “Make us something fruity and easy,” I tell Bartender J-Two. 

“But make sure we get really drunk,” Bloke says.

The three of us have something delicious.  It remains to be seen if Bloke’s request is fulfilled.  Oh wait—we’re already really drunk.

“What do you call that?” I ask.

“Let’s call it the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity shot,” Bartender J-Two says.

“Is your brother abusing my sister somewhere?” Sissa asks.

“Probably.  That’s a rhetorical question, isn’t it?”

Bloke goes to check on said abuse, and reports back that they are safe on the front porch at the Lair.  (He also relates the following: Upon finding them, he says, “Look what your bitch sister did to me!” and shows them a long red scratch on his arm.  They totally fall for it before he tells them that it’s red pen.  And I’ve drawn stitches as well, so it would be tough to cut him and sew him up—in a bar.)

From there, we move on to Side Bar.  Our original destination!  Bloke’s friend Hilarity joins us. 

“How are you?” Bloke asks.

“I’ve still got my dick and my balls, so I’m okay.”

“How many hours do we have left?” El Dilector yells.

“Fourteen, eight, twenty-one,” Bloke says.

El Dilector makes a face.

And lo and behold, a blast from the past joins us—it’s none other than MackTate!  He and I go for reinforcements.  That would be more beer and some decent mixers for the vodka.  From there, it’s After-Party time at the Triple Cinco. 

After-Party is rather delayed when El D runs into one of the HOA representatives at the hotel bar.  I can’t imagine why she’s not happy with him.  His infractions include the following: having 30 people plus up to his place on a weekly basis, noise complaints and puke in the hallway.  He dispenses of her with his unbelievable charm, and we head upstairs to commence After-Partying.

We’re ordering room service when there’s a knock at the door.   I hear El D yelling and slamming the door—not once, not twice, but three times in a row.  Oh boy.  It’s HOA Girl.  However, despite her chilly reception, she comes in anyway.  After observing our ways and telling us that we all must be on drugs and/or on our way to an early death, she tells me that I am exotic and beautiful.  Then she looks from me to El Dilector.  “You are both gorgeous,” she says.  Sweet.  Problem solved.  I am sure that beautiful people can screw up all they want—just look at Hollywood!

I have decided to pass out on the couch.  MackTate, Bloke and Hilarity take turns buzzing around me to see if I am comfortable.  Then Bloke has some sort of psychotic break and decides it would be funny to stuff a sock in my mouth.  I manage to struggle away from his grip, but it’s not easy after approximately 17 vodka drinks.

“How many hours do I have left?!” El Dilector asks.

“Five,” Bloke answers.

“That can’t be right,” El D says, but is distracted by yet another makeout session.

Sleep cannot be had quite yet.  Here’s a new visitor at the reasonable hour of 3:45 a.m.  It’s a neighbor who wants everyone to see her new tattoo.  I think it’s in the vicinity of her ass.  Pretty much everyone in the room is trying to avoid looking at it as she sashays around wiggling it. 

We manage to get rid of her, and El D starts slapping boys on the shoulder.  “Out.  In general, you can’t talk to my sister,” El Dilector says.  “NO WOOING!”

-Shakira 10.12.09