Exams Are Done

El Dilector and I are cruising past Molotov (don’t worry—we’ll be back for The Sweep) when we encounter Gringo Especial.  Yikes.  It’s been a while since I’ve seen that dude.  We exchange pleasantries. 

“Look at that,” says El Dilector, “You walk down the street, you run into an ex-boyfriend.”  That tends to happen when you have lots of boys in the web.  Sigh.  Poor boys.

We have passed Molotov because we are headed to backup bar numero uno—the Key Bar, ladies and gents.   Boots, Brooke and CutiePie have already gotten their drinks and are sitting in a configuration near the fire pit. 

Oh, yeah, that’s right—this place has a fire pit surrounded by gravel.  Totally not conducive to walking.  And if you’re not on the gravel, the spaces between the wood planks of the patio have a tendency to grab your heels.   I have seen more than one girl walk right out of her shoe at this bar.  I think owners of bars should make it extra easy to walk in them, considering it becomes extra hard as soon as you start downing drinks.  What is this?  Some kind of conspiracy?!

I digress.  Speaking of conspiracy, Boots is telling me about sharks.  He has some interesting facts to divulge, one being that tiger sharks can live in fresh water and apparently are super aggressive. 

“Where did you learn all of this?  The Internet?” I ask.

“No, Shark Week on TLC!”

“Oh.”

“I am telling you, if you go in the ocean, sharks will EAT you.  It’s only a matter of time.  THEY ARE KILLING MACHINES!”

Brooke is shaking her head.  “I told you he has an unhealthy obsession.”

I guess it’s wildlife night at Key Bar, because I have decided I know what El Dilector needs.  “A cougar!” I proclaim, waving my glass of wine around.  “You need a good-looking 45-year-old with her own job and her own independence.  It’s perfect!”

El Dilector looks around.  “I’m not disagreeing with you.  Where is she?” He’s eyeing the waitress, who is not a cougar.  She’s probably more like 19. 

There’s a bit of confusion about where to go next.  We make a run past J. Black’s but it’s too crowded.  So of course we’ll just head to Molotov. 

Up on the roof, I am informed that El D cannot be served by waitresses at Molotov because it’s too confusing for everyone.  It doesn’t seem to matter that El Dilector spends so much money in there he likely pays the bar’s rent each month. 

It’s my first return to Molotov since the new roof.  No longer spongy.  Once upon a time Bro said it was like walking on clouds.  I am busy thinking about spongy versus hard in floors…when I overhear Boots and Brooke make a promise to El Dilector that they will come ALL the way to 5th and Red River to hang out.  Awww, that’s sweet.  What is that, like eight blocks?  That is commitment to friendship, people.

“We hold court here!” El Dilector proclaims as we grab a table.
 
I decide I need more wine so I brave the crowd to find the bar.  There are some ridiculous-looking fake moustaches up in here.  As I’m peering at one, which is falling off some dude’s face, he informs me that it’s National Moustache Day.  Ooops.  I didn’t get the news—I just got mine lasered the day before. 

Back at the table, El D is monitoring the empty chair next to him.  A girl tries to sit down.  “Sorry, that’s taken,” he lies.  He looks at me.  “Not cute enough.”

CutiePie and I decide that her newly-earned degree shall be altered.  She’s a female; thus no silly Masters for her.  She is a Mistress of Business!

And time for dancing!  Wheee!  We all head downstairs…well, do we?  I’ve lost track of people at this point.  I’m pretty sure that Boots and Brooke have disappeared because they are making out somewhere. 

I see El D strutting his stuff on the dance floor.  Oh yes, the ladies are flocking.  I decide to watch while sipping a seriously gigantic glass of wine.  (I’m not quite sure where I got it.)

Wow.  There is some awkward drunk dancing going on here.  I hope I do not wind up a part of it.  And as soon as I’m thinking this, some dude grabs my hand and forces me onto the floor.  Dance partner is intense, but I manage to carry on a conversation with another dude while dancing.  Who says I can’t multi-task while drunk?

The last thing I know is that El Dilector is sweeping up FOREVER, and I gotta get a cab.  Good night—er, morning!

-Shakira 05.27.09