Thanksgiving 2009

We begin our night at the hotel bar, because that’s a nice change of pace for, well, me.  While there, I admit that I *might* be an alcoholic.  The bartenders are way too nice to me!  They say things like, “No, way, you look amazing” and “You're too together to be an alcoholic.”  But then when they find out I hang out with El D on a semi-regular basis they decide, yes, in fact I could be an alkie.

El D must move on, because we’ve had a grand total of one drink each.  He suggests Casino but I am not the only one stuck in a pattern because I suggest Jimmy’s.  Aw, hell.  Patterns be damned.  I love this bar and I can only visit it once or twice a month.  I simply must find a Jimmy’s in Houston.

We are greeted by Bartender J-Two, who waves aside my ID, clutches me in a bear hug and says, “Get the fuck in there!” See, now this is red carpet treatment for regulars. 

El D and I grab a Matador and Tito’s—yeah, I think I called this Monster before—it’s the Red Bull substitute that keeps my heart racing—mental note, only drink one of these—and a couple of bar stools.  He’s got Bloke, MackTate and Vamp on the way. 

MackTate arrives and grabs a Matador as well.  Toro!  Toro!  We’ll be bull-fighting in no time.  Bloke joins us and gets a beer.  And we’re off. 

El D thinks that we should be more diligent about writing down the funny things we say.  This is true but it gets so damn hard to remember to write after a few cocktails.  Okay, and not just to write but often, how to write as well.

Speaking of funny, Bloke requests entertainment.

El Dilector shakes his head.  “Do I always have to be the little monkey dancing around!?”

The conversation turns some boys’ preference for, er, heavy women.  Bloke introduces us all to the term feeder.  This is apparently a newly-skinny man who now must satisfy his need for food by feeding it to someone else. 

“Yeah, they like to feed cake to the ladies.”

“Oooh.  We had cupcakes in here once,” I daydream.

The boys go out to the porch for a cigarette and probably to spy on some ladies.

“Bartender J-Two!” I yell.  “Can I get a Tito’s and Sprite?”

“Yes.”

“And a song change?”

“No.”

Damn, DE-nied.  Vamp joins us and I explain to her that the lighting in Jimmy’s ladies room is spectacular.  And, ladies, this just in: the lighting is still awesome. I come back and report back to Vamp as I promised.  “If only I could take that lighting with me, all the way down the street and everywhere I go,” I say wistfully.

Vamp has to see for herself and returns with a smile.  “Oh my God, you’re right,” she says through her shiny-fresh-lipsticked lips.

For some reason, it’s time to go to a new bar.  It’s called Barcelona.  El D explains it’s on Sixth Street Proper.  Well, that’s why I don’t know where it is.  That’s like the other side of the world—where 22-year-olds hang out.  Perhaps that’s why El Dilector would like to go.  Will they let oldies like us in?

They do indeed, and we descend into a basement bar.  A little claustrophobic for my tastes, but hey, they have drinks and therefore we shall give it a try. 
MikeTate evaluates as we relax on a couch next to weird black drapes.  “This place is not as bad as it could be.”

“A ringing endorsement,” I say.

“Well, there could be more lights, and it could be louder, and three-deep at the bar,” he points out.  Aw, look at MackTate’s positive outlook!  And that’s what every girl should look for in her favorite holiday drinking buddy.  (Yes, we went to Jimmy’s Irish Lair on Christmas once.  I suspect the bartenders at the hotel bar might notch me up a bit on the alcoholic ladder for that one.)

Our holiday drinking sets us off reminiscing and he recalls an old article about toast points.  “I know I’m right,” he says now.  “You don’t have to win if you’re right.”

Good point, MackTate.

El D interrupts our serious contemplation of breakfast food to tell us that this is his six-month friend anniversary with Vamp.  “She was the first freezer girl,” he says proudly.  “The genesis of freezer girls, if you will.” 

Indeed, I will.

El Dilector then gets up to sit in the VIP section, which is set off by more curtains—this time red.  However, he thinks that VIP means “allowed to smoke” and almost as quickly is kicked out of said VIP area. 

Bloke has obtained two shots of something that smells suspiciously of black licorice.  He insists I take one and says it doesn’t taste like it smells.  Ewwwww, that’s what she said!  (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)  I refuse and he takes both shots. 

MackTate says it best: “I like this place, just not in a coming back kind of way.” 

(Time for Shakira to behave until finals are over. And then, my friends, not one, but TWO birthday celebrations. Is there a training program for my liver?)

-Shakira 12.02.09