Celibracy: A Night to De-Tag

We have decided to celebrate the last tango at the 555 by beginning our evening with dinner.

“Dinner?” El Dilector repeats after me when I suggest it.  “That’s a new idea.”  Thus, we attempt to have a “civilized” dinner at Finn & Porter.  I mean, God forbid we venture outside of the Hilton.

El Dilector is pretty sure this night is going to spiral out of control after our dinner.  He claims it will be a night to de-tag yourself on Facebook.

“You can’t tag my ass,” GB says.  Then he pauses.  “Well, you can, but that’s a totally different web site.”

We’re about halfway through our meal when El Dilector says it’s time for an announcement.  We quiet down and listen.

“This is a journey I must take alone,” he begins.  “I’m entering a celibate phase of my life.” 

There is silence for a moment.  Then we start laughing.  “It’s a celebration….it’s a CELIBRACY!” I declare with glee.

“El D, the third time I met you, you had glitter all over your face,” says Boots.  I think this statement means that it’s impossible for El D to be celibate.  I think.

Boots also opines that El D was born as a 30-year-old man and that he sprung fully-formed from a bar into downtown Austin. Apparently no one can imagine him as a child.  He didn’t drink quite as much, but he was really almost the same.  I can vouch for this.

“We need to get you a priest collar,” someone says to El Dilector.

“I have one at my place,” GB says.

Dinner begins to shift from civilized to something much different: there is a fair amount of yelling and pounding of the table.  This is not really appropriate for Finn & Porter, so we wrap it up and take it to the bar upstairs.

“I need to pull up a chair and get drunk,” El Dilector says, pulling up a stool next to me and C-Mo.  Approximately 20 seconds later, he’s up and ready to go to another bar.  Shocking.

I manage to drink a few more sips of my cocktail before he forces us to leave.  We head to Jimmy’s Irish Lair.  “The bartender at Jimmy’s will probably molest me or do something inappropriate,” I tell C-Mo.  As I’m finishing my sentence, he accosts me on the sidewalk and crushes me into a bear hug.

“See?” I say to C-Mo, face smashed into his shoulder.

Inside, we order drinks, and El Dilector “makes friends” with a scruffy, short, slightly smelly dude.  Then, he turns Smelly on to me and C-Mo.  “Hey, I just made friends with Smelly,” he says, and then walks outside to smoke a cigarette.

Thanks, El D.  Now C-Mo and I are trapped talking to Smelly, who apparently is a rodeo champion.  Oh great.  I love the rodeo.  So kind to animals.  I think this offends Smelly, who wants to convince me that the animals are really all okay.  I wish he would just go away. 

GB walks back in from supervising El Dilector on the porch.  “I’ve never seen him this drunk this early.  Your brother is out of control.”

“What happened?”

“Wine?  Sea bass?  The fact he hasn’t eaten in three years?”

Bartender J-Two runs over to me.  “Do you wanna hold me?”

“Yes,” I respond.

GB’s gaze shifts to the table behind us, where five or six cute guys are sitting.  “Is that table gay or foreign?”  he asks.  We size them up and ultimately determine foreign based on their poor choices in footwear.

El D wants to leave—again.  And again I have a full cocktail sitting in front of me.  I convince GB to give us El D’s credit card.  That way we can meet up with them later but don’t have to buy our own drinks.  Perfect.

Our group has splintered.  Bro and Spring are at Elysium, C-Mo and I are at Jimmy’s and I suspect El D and GB have gone to Barbarella.  C-Mo and I find Bro and Spring.  It’s The Cure and Morrissey night.  Or something.  C-Mo and I would prefer alternate music, but we decide to give it our all.  Much dancing ensues.  

There are photos. 

They have been destroyed.

Aaaaand back to the 555 for the penultimate after party!  (There’s one the next night, but I do not attend, and thus it’s *my* last one.  Sigh.  I will miss you, 555.  A lot of memories.  Also, a lot of blackout nights with no memory.)

Dance party!  I run around the room trying to give some sort of lyrical performance, but the rug at the end of the bed totally takes me down.  I hit the rug, skid and crash land, showing everyone my underwear.  What else is new?  However, I’m glad I wore some.

Because El Dilector is packing up his place to move, he pulls out a photo album and a miniature Christmas tree and we have a moment of nostalgia.  Look, Boots—it’s proof El D was once a small child!

We last until 5 a.m.  Not a bad showing.  Good night, goodbye, and good luck, 555!  I can’t wait until my first after party at the new place.  Stay tuned.

-Shakira 09.25.10