Zen in 2010

It’s Return to Molotov!  I suppose it’s only fitting, in order to properly bid adieu to 2009.  (Hey, 2009—good riddance!  You kind of sucked.)  Gregorio, MackTate, El D and I kick off the night together.  GB and others will later us, but for now we go in search of our exclusive little table.  It’s…oh boy…it’s outside and the temperature is something like, um, 5 degrees.  And windy.  We bravely decide to order drinks and hang out in the section that is sort of heated.  Personally, my bravery is short-lived.

I head back downstairs, followed shortly by the rest of the crew.  Gregorio claims he will only have beer after midnight.  I am curious to see if he can stick to that.  In the meantime, however, we are drinking most of the vodka at Molotov. 

“We need something to warm our bellies!” I keep yelling.  MackTate and Gregorio find this hilarious.  I’m just talking about a little shot (or two or five) to dull the pain of the cold outside—doesn’t this make perfect sense?

This is how we wind up back upstairs in The Frozen Tundra, where I ask the bartender to make us something (1) sweet and delicious; (2) to warm our bellies and; (3) to make us very, very drunk.  He concocts something made out of strawberry and booze.  Perfect!  He puts our shots on the bar and MackTate conveniently picks up the tab. 

El Dilector manages to spill part of his shot, but it miraculously misses me.  (Turns out, it has coated the back of my fluffy faux fur party coat.)

Midnight approaches.  At the end of the countdown, there are kisses all around.  Who kisses whom, you ask?  No way.  This is not a tell-all book, people!  Let’s just say everyone is happy, and not just because our table includes a bottle of champagne, which GB is doing a wonderful job of doling out.  My flute runneth over!

Following midnight, we head back downstairs to thaw out and do some serious dancing.  I believe at this point El D dons some black glasses that seem to appear whenever he hangs with the two sisters: Jet and Pop-Tart.  He continues to wear said glasses while we dance, take photos and at some point try and eat various limbs of various people.  Gregorio tries to take a chunk out of El D’s arm, while GB gnaws on my ear.

Gaaah!  Someone has spilled a drink inside my boot.  (I am about 20 percent sure it wasn’t me.)  Pop-Tart says maybe we should trade boots.  This sounds like a glorious idea!  But then we look down at our boots and the nasty floor and we can’t really remember WHY it’s such a glorious idea.  Better to continue dancing.  I am sure our dancing is top-notch.  After all, Gregorio has confessed that if he’s dancing, he’s completely wasted.  Oh, there he is, doing a pirouette. 

My fluffy faux fur strawberry shot-covered party coat disappears twice in the space of five minutes.  Thankfully, it is recovered, considering (1) how cute it is and (2) how freakin’ cold it is outside.

And if they weren’t already, NOW things get confusing.  There’s some talk of cab-sharing.  But suddenly GB, El D, Pop-Tart and Jet have all disappeared.  MackTate and I are left to navigate the cold, mean streets alone.  We join forces, looking for a cab, but have to hoof it.  We’re getting delayed text messages that go something like this.  Nothing for five minutes.  Then in rapid succession ten messages in a row: COME TO KUNG FU!  COME TO KUNG FU!  COME TO KUNG FU!  COME TO KUNG FU!  We manage to straggle part of the way, stopping in the Driskill.  We ask (loudly, methinks) for a drink, but it’s 20 minutes till two a.m. and we’re totally out of luck.  Either they’re not serving
anymore…or they’re just not serving US.

This does not stop me from having a loud conversation with GB via cell phone in the bathroom of the Driskill.  I’m fairly sure my voice is around airplane engine decibels.

Mack and I make it to the lobby of the 555 by two a.m. and figure GB and the gang will have to show up soon.  Oh no.  We are wrong.  It’s time for Music Gym: everyone’s favorite electronic dance party in a claustrophobic trailer!  (“There’s music at Music Gym?” El D and MackTate later muse.)  I grab a coffee from the lobby and drink it for strength as MackTate patiently guides me to the East Side, assuring me that I will NOT freeze to death.

We are reunited with our clan at Music Gym.  El D is still sporting his awesome black frames.  This is really all that happens except I run into Vamp and one of her friends, who are both gorgeousandsassy fans!  I love these people.

I finally convince El Dilector and his silly glasses to go back to the 555.  GB decides that I am not having enough fun, and goes downstairs to find a man for me.  He brings up a treat we’ll call West, who says, “GB told me there were straight people here.”  Thus, El D and Pop-Tart waste no time in attempting to get West to get in the freezer.  He is not really buying this idea, considering he’s about 6’4”.

When the sun comes up at 7 a.m., we all stare in rapture.  Holy crap—why are we still awake?!  Oh hell.  It must be time to pass out.  This, I do, with my head pointed the wrong way on the chaise lounge.

Happy New Year!

-Shakira 01.11.10