ACL Minus the Music--Again.

So Kennedy and I have this elaborate plan--okay, I'm involving her but it's really all me and my horrible timing--to get a ride downtown to avoid the ACL madness. Davito and Mom are nice enough to provide said ride, and we manage to get them ensnared in the worst traffic ever. I am an awesome daughter.

After connecting via cell phone with El Dilector, (it goes something like "WHERE are you?" "WHAT corner?" "TELL ME THE NAME of the--for fuck's sake, text ME!") we arrange to meet them at the corner of his new place. This means Kennedy, Mom and I get out of the car schlep luggage and an air mattress down the street at 10 p.m. In heels. That's right. Time for drinks, people!

After Bro mistakes Mom from afar for a new girlfriend of mine and she tells the boys to make sure and take care of Kennedy (but not necessarily me--because I'm used to the madness, apparently) and we've dropped off our junk upstairs, we're off to the bar.

Okay, I lie. It's supposedly a bar--called House Wine--but we've decided to dub it The Sad Cafe, in honor of (1) The Eagles playing ACL Sunday night and (2) the fact that the place is very nearly deserted, quiet and quite frankly, boring as all hell. Kennedy and I wobble in over a gravel entry way--what the what?--and she wonders what's up with all the off-roading. Our slutty heels are not made for this.

"Everyone is dressed down and hippie, and we're dressed up and tippy," she observes.

Right on, Kennedy. And time to get tipsy.

We find the general random assortment of drunks one would expect to be rolling with El Dilector, including GB and MackTate. MackTate informs me that Phish wasn't that good.

"Oh, that's surprising. NOT."

"Did you once say that only white people love a jam band?" he asks.

"Yes. I did. I stand by it. Did YOU see any non-white people at Phish tonight?"

He considers a moment. "No, no, I didn't."

"Phish. I don't eat it or listen to it."

Then MackTate, Kennedy and I get involved in a discussion regarding technological marvels such as twitter and some sort of mass text thingamajigger that I don't really understand. Somehow this devolves into me using the term "electronic mail" (that's email, to you people who don't remember) and then explaining to MackTate that there used to be actual letters delivered by people in trucks or on horses. Letters written on parchment. MackTate mentions the wax seal. I think we are definitely on our way to drunk.

However, drunk cannot be achieved at The Safe Cafe, where a waitress type person is actually cleaning up around us. "Um, El D!" I call to him, where he is holding court with some people. "Can we go to a place that--" I spy the waitress and instead of finishing with "--doesn't suck!" I say, "--isn't closing?"

Apparently this is just the beginning of how hard I am to handle, as El Dilector grabs a newcomer, double points at me and says: "You haven't really DEALT with that shit yet!"

There is one obvious choice for moving on, and that's Barton Springs Saloon, which requires some more off-roading in our slutty heels. We arrive at the bar and I again announce my theory that the smoking ban was a mistake, because the smoke smell previously covered up the puke smell. This bar truly smells like vomit. Thus, we have been to The Sad Cafe and Puke Bar so far tonight. This is DEFINITELY the dark side of drunk.

Blessedly outside, we sit down and get out the Castro hats so that we can continue their travels. From Houston to Austin....next up, Dallas! Or Vegas? Kennedy and I discuss the possibility of getting to and from Vegas for a quick weekend, like flying in on Friday and back out on Saturday to save money.

"I think if you're only there for one night, you don't even need a room," Kennedy says wisely. "You just clean up in the hotel lobby and maybe a bit in the airport if needed."

I am wholly on board with this plan. Perhaps for my birthday.

There is an extremely drunk woman who also left The Sad Cafe in favor of Puke Bar. She wobbles by us and Kennedy nearly jumps out of her seat. "I don't want that lady to throw up on me. It would be the end for me."

We are lucky that Drunk Lady moves on and falls down somewhere else. So, what's a logical next step for us? Shots! Kennedy declines but MackTate, El Dilector, Bro and I indulge in a delicious tequila shot. Oh, I'm lying again. Tequila is not delicious and Bro refuses to take his. After we've downed our shots, he yells "SUCKERS!" and laughs maniacally. I'm not sure why we are losers for taking the shot, but I do throw a lime wedge and strike him directly on the nose. I say score.

Bro finally takes his shot and then he, MackTate and I get into a discussion about something very serious. I don't know what it's about. I only know I feel compelled to say the following:

"Neither of you believe in anything. You are empty dead souls."

There is a long pause.

"She's so right," MackTate says.

It's getting close to two, and MackTate and his empy dead soul flag a cab, leaving the scene of the crime. And you know what that means--time for my very first After Party at El D's new place. And this also means (1) I'm not sure what's about to happen and (2) I probably will not be able to document anything properly, since After Parties are, er, difficult to remember.

El Dilector, as usual, promises he has alcohol and has prepared properly for said After Party. As usual, he's lying, as five of us (El D, Bro, GB, Kenney and me) descend upon his kitchen and find exactly one 12-pack of beer and enough red wine to make half a glass. And I am pretty sure some of the beers are half empty. This does not matter to us, as we all proceed to drink a swig out of every single bottle. Kennedy scores the wine. I tell her to hold onto it, as inevitably, GB will steal it. Approximately one hour later, he has done just that.

Some more people arrive. Some more people leave. There may or may not have been a fight. I know I yell, "Dog pile!" at four a.m. and tackle several people. GB tries to leave ten times in the space of an hour. This is somewhere around five a.m. and I am thinking longingly of the air mattress I will share with Kennedy. (Unbeknownest to me, it has such a big leak that I will wind up sleeping as if in a hammock, but that's another story.) I'm pretty sure GB and I make some plans for some event in November. (GB, can you remind me what that was? Text me!) Oh, yeah, Kennedy makes an awesome cheese and almond plate. El D later offers it to her.

"I MADE the snack plate," she tells him.

And, scene.

-Shakira 10.13.10