Social Distortion

Our night out begins at Jimmy’s Irish Lair.  El Dilector and I are feeling sleepy, so naturally we down approximately 72 Red Bulls and vodka.  (I later learn from Bartender J-Two that it’s some sort of Monster drink brand instead of Red Bull because they get a better deal.  Fine with me.  Still tastes like Sweet Tarts and is to blame for my racing heartbeat and inability to nap the next day.)

Electric and her friend Newsie are the first two to join our social madness.  El D looks over Newsie’s jaunty cap, tie, and accompanying sweater vest and says, “I like what you’ve got going on there.”

Newsie begs off early, claiming he needs to take an LSAT practice exam in the morning, but I think Electric is right when she says he needs to get up and deliver some newspapers.

El D is off procuring more Red Bull (er, Monster, whatevs) and vodka when Electric says to me, “Well, aren’t you a tiny little ball of hotness.”  Wheee!  Apparently Electric has read this site and knows flattery will get you everywhere with me.

When El D returns, we discuss how quickly gossip is spread with Electric and her friends.  “It’s like a sewing circle, these girls,” El D sighs.  I guess people just need to spread the word about what drunken antics El Dilector is up to.  Why hold back, ladies?!

“Whatevs is my favorite new word,” I tell Electric and El D while we wait for more peeps to arrive.  “GWH told me to stop saying it.  I was like, ‘Whatevs.’”

It turns out Bloke has arrived and snuck right past us.  He’s shooting darts inside with some female person we don’t know.   I run inside and ask him immediately where Hilarity is.  Bloke frowns.  Isn’t he enough entertainment?

“You’re looking very fluffy tonight,” Bloke tells me, referring to my faux fur.  “Fluffy becomes you.”

Back at the table, we have gathered Bloke, his lady colleague Lala, MackTate and his bro, LittleMack.  El D explains that he is working on getting the best freezer picture possible.  Apparently, upon seeing the freezer pictures, our mother commented, “Aren’t those girls cold?  You should get them sweaters before you put them in the freezer.”

I tell El D that I have warned our mother I will scratch her son’s eyes right out of his head if he tries to put me in that claustrophobia inducer.

Apparently the WHOLE WORLD is coming to play—it’s Boots and Blondie!  Wheee!  And now Prince is singing—something about making it rain?  Yes, indeed it IS raining money—there is seven dollars on the floor. 

It’s Journey’s turn to rock the jukebox.  Streetlights versus people—the debate continues!  I don’t know.  I think maybe you can count on streetlights more than people.  They can be so fickle.

Meanwhile, Bloke and El D have gotten into some scuffle over the English language.  My money is on Bloke, but El D is not deterred. “You guys invented English!” he screams.  “Why can’t you SPEAK it?!”

It’s time to discuss moving on.  Frankly, I’m surprised we’ve been at one bar this long. 

“It’s always the drunk guy who starts some shit,” MackTate sighs.

“Am I always the drunk guy?” El D wonders.

Everyone looks at him. He questions?

“Okay, 90% of the time,” he agrees.  “Creekside now!”

We head over and I decide that Bro should definitely join the fun.  His text says, “At a show.”  I tell him we are way more fun than a show and he should come over.  He texts some nonsense about not drinking. “Well, then we would definitely annoy you!  xoxo” 

It’s probably safe to say Bro will not be joining us.

It turns out an old friend of El Dilector’s (Oso) is working the door at Creekside.  He’s awesome and has known me since I was just a young drunk.  While Bloke tries to abuse me—I have no idea what he’s doing, trying to rein me in?  What is he thinking?—I hang halfway out the door and warn Bloke that Oso has known me a loooooooong time and will kill him if he continues to harass me.  Oso looks appropriately threatening. Excellent.

We’re out back when I meet a new friend of El D’s whom I have seen on Facebook.  “Well, hello Charles L. Picadillo,” I say, having memorized his full name from the site.  Both Charles and El D are wowed by my photographic memory. I continue to scream Charles’ full name for the rest of the evening.  He thinks I’m funny!

There are shots of something pink, some dancing and then it’s time to head out.  After-party, anyone?  (No, really—I’m not sure.  Things get very fuzzy from here.)  I recall attempting to entice El D’s cat to come out of the closet, lying on my belly next to Bloke.  This activity could have lasted twenty minutes or one hour. 

Then El D is throwing bills around, and I am hopping around picking them up, begging MackTate to help my drunk ass count them.

Around three a.m., I play the role of the girl who passes out on the couch while people continue to party. El D and GB go find some people downstairs who are kind enough to donate the contents of their mini-fridge to the After Party Cause. 

I awaken and decide I MUST get back home, so I show El D my cab fare.

“Where did you get all that money?” he asks.

“A boy gave it to me.”

I get in a cab and I’m pretty sure Colin Powell (apparently he has grown out his military cut) is at the wheel.  And he has a nasty cold. “Colin Powell and his swine flu are taking me home,” I text El D.

The next morning (afternoon, more likely) El Dilector goes to the lobby for coffee. 

“Did you get in trouble last night?” the concierge asks.

“You tell me,” El D says.

-Shakira 11.16.09