Award Tour Vol. 22: Self-Inflicted
All day we had been outside participating in a Mini-Baja competition, near Orlando, Fl. and it was hot. We spent the better part of that day, underneath that sun taking a beating from it's rays like, Kane delivered to his baby momma's cousin in Menace II Society (if you don't know what I'm talking about, rent the video, find the fight scene were it's one person fighting, and the other person being beaten unconscious - now imagine that as a sun ray - feel the burn). It made for a really long day.
Anyway, afterwards, me and a few other team members decided to go out on the town to party - afterall we're in Orlando during the Shaquille O'Neal era... who knows what we might run into. Jalen (yes the same Jalen of the infamous Award Tour Series. Vol 12), myself, Solomon, Lynchburg, and his friend Mario (a man who lived in the area and was the de facto tour guide) all set out for parts unknown.
After a few warm up drinks, we decide to go to a club called Hero's - supposed to be the spot of champions. I first notice signs of trouble when we arrive. Women with beautiful short cut dresses, hair done up (and this is no small deal, remember, we're talking about humidity stricken Orlando, Fl) high heels, dudes with fine linen pants and slacks, silk shirts, Rolly's, Movados, classy dress all around...
...and then there was us.
I had on dark color pants, boots that might be mistaken for dress shoes if one was high on crystal meth and partially blinded by the lighting. The crown jewel of my attire, was a shirt from Structure. I would be lucky if I got a flyer, let alone into the club... and I was the best dressed of the crew. Everyone else had on Jeans, and Jalen (God bless him) had on a black t-shirt with the words "You're Wasted" written in fuzzy white letters. He was doomed before he even left the hotel. Solomon, seeing the same potential problem brewing, began to politic with the Door-man immediately. Somehow we collectively convinced him to let us in...
... things go down hill from there.
But allow me to back track. During Spring Break in Daytona, FL earlier in the year, I came down with another group of friends, partied like it was 1999 and drank more in those 4 days, than I had in had in the entire 2 years I was of legal age to drink. This proved to be a mistake on my part, and I subsequently gave up alcohol altogether for the next 2 years (you can appreciate the symmetry in that can't you?). When I can remember the details of what actually happened inbetween throwing up and being drunk, I'll write a blog about Daytona. Right now, all I remember is the vomit, the spin cycle head ache that nauseated me the entire trip home prompting my prayer for death or unconsciousness (whichever would come first) and my vow that I would not drink anymore (well for 2 years anyway).
With that vow still in place, I walk into Club Heros, where this is little more to do than drink. Jalen, Solomon, and Lynchburg make a B-line straight to the bar, while Mario talked to any woman that walked past. Perhaps because I was the only one that was sober, I realized that merely getting into the club, dressed as we were, was a phenomal fete and probably represented the pinnacle of what we would achieve that night; hoping for or expecting anything beyond that was just foolishness, greed, or both.
We weren't just up against celebrities who were in attedance (Penny Hardaway, Dennis Scott, Karl Kani to name a few) who I happened to see walking conspicuously to and fro, back and forth through throngs of scantily (but nonetheless) well dressed women - we were pitted against the oridinary club patrons who were dressed to impress. I mean you put my Structure shirt up against, Eygptian Cotton, my Levi's 501 jeans up against Ralph Lauren Polo Slacks, or the all out suits from Bernini... and what is there to discuss? "Rock beats scissors" - I sat down. I got in to the club and that probably shouldn't have happened... I think this will serve as a moral victory for me.
Let's begin with Jalen. His debacle begin with 1 and 1/2 drinks at the bar. Halfway through his second drink, he felt sufficiently imbibed to take a stab at the dance floor. He seemed to forget that he was wearing a black t-shirt with the words, "You're Wasted" written on the front in fuzzy white letters. He handed me the rest of the drink and said, "Yo, you can kill the rest of this, I'm about to go grab one of these chicks and go to the dance floor".
I looked at him, smirked, and noted the time on my watch; approx 11:00 p.m.
Anyway, afterwards, me and a few other team members decided to go out on the town to party - afterall we're in Orlando during the Shaquille O'Neal era... who knows what we might run into. Jalen (yes the same Jalen of the infamous Award Tour Series. Vol 12), myself, Solomon, Lynchburg, and his friend Mario (a man who lived in the area and was the de facto tour guide) all set out for parts unknown.
After a few warm up drinks, we decide to go to a club called Hero's - supposed to be the spot of champions. I first notice signs of trouble when we arrive. Women with beautiful short cut dresses, hair done up (and this is no small deal, remember, we're talking about humidity stricken Orlando, Fl) high heels, dudes with fine linen pants and slacks, silk shirts, Rolly's, Movados, classy dress all around...
...and then there was us.
I had on dark color pants, boots that might be mistaken for dress shoes if one was high on crystal meth and partially blinded by the lighting. The crown jewel of my attire, was a shirt from Structure. I would be lucky if I got a flyer, let alone into the club... and I was the best dressed of the crew. Everyone else had on Jeans, and Jalen (God bless him) had on a black t-shirt with the words "You're Wasted" written in fuzzy white letters. He was doomed before he even left the hotel. Solomon, seeing the same potential problem brewing, began to politic with the Door-man immediately. Somehow we collectively convinced him to let us in...
... things go down hill from there.
But allow me to back track. During Spring Break in Daytona, FL earlier in the year, I came down with another group of friends, partied like it was 1999 and drank more in those 4 days, than I had in had in the entire 2 years I was of legal age to drink. This proved to be a mistake on my part, and I subsequently gave up alcohol altogether for the next 2 years (you can appreciate the symmetry in that can't you?). When I can remember the details of what actually happened inbetween throwing up and being drunk, I'll write a blog about Daytona. Right now, all I remember is the vomit, the spin cycle head ache that nauseated me the entire trip home prompting my prayer for death or unconsciousness (whichever would come first) and my vow that I would not drink anymore (well for 2 years anyway).
With that vow still in place, I walk into Club Heros, where this is little more to do than drink. Jalen, Solomon, and Lynchburg make a B-line straight to the bar, while Mario talked to any woman that walked past. Perhaps because I was the only one that was sober, I realized that merely getting into the club, dressed as we were, was a phenomal fete and probably represented the pinnacle of what we would achieve that night; hoping for or expecting anything beyond that was just foolishness, greed, or both.
We weren't just up against celebrities who were in attedance (Penny Hardaway, Dennis Scott, Karl Kani to name a few) who I happened to see walking conspicuously to and fro, back and forth through throngs of scantily (but nonetheless) well dressed women - we were pitted against the oridinary club patrons who were dressed to impress. I mean you put my Structure shirt up against, Eygptian Cotton, my Levi's 501 jeans up against Ralph Lauren Polo Slacks, or the all out suits from Bernini... and what is there to discuss? "Rock beats scissors" - I sat down. I got in to the club and that probably shouldn't have happened... I think this will serve as a moral victory for me.
Let's begin with Jalen. His debacle begin with 1 and 1/2 drinks at the bar. Halfway through his second drink, he felt sufficiently imbibed to take a stab at the dance floor. He seemed to forget that he was wearing a black t-shirt with the words, "You're Wasted" written on the front in fuzzy white letters. He handed me the rest of the drink and said, "Yo, you can kill the rest of this, I'm about to go grab one of these chicks and go to the dance floor".
I looked at him, smirked, and noted the time on my watch; approx 11:00 p.m.
*
Okay, let's see what are my initial conditions for this problem? He'll probably start on the left hand side of the club and take a horseshoe path (clockwise) around the perimeter of the club asking women if they wanted to dance. The first two women turned him down in less than 4 seconds. At that pace, and factoring in celebrities in attendance, the dress of other patrons, our lack of attire, fame, fortune, and acclaim, I estimated it would take maybe 7 minutes before he made his way back to the bar in disgust looking for a drink*
- and his half of a drink would be waiting for him.
As Jalen started down the first leg of the horseshoe, I glanced over at Solomon who had somehow found a way to strike up a conversation with one of the clubs proprieters, a man known as BJ. They talked, they drank, they laughed and drank some more. BJ had access to the VIP area, and somehow Solomon had convinced him to take us up. Perhaps I had shot too low in my expectations afterall. Maybe there was an even higher water mark to yet establish. If Solomon could keep this up, we were in good shape (but of course now, if you have read any of my previous blogs, you know how these things go - two words - not well). Solomon's debacle was merely beginning to take shape.
Lynchburg and Mario were now at the bar watching women walk in. There was one particular woman that stood out - the blonde who came strolling in to be precise. You certainly couldn't mistake her for a sister... I question if you could even mistake her for a lady... but again
... I wasn't drunk.
Because she was blond, she stood out automatically, but her chest just drew more attention. It was huge... it looked like two hot air balloons attacking one another from behind a tarp. That's a whole lotta salt water there. Anyhow, she walks by several times, receiving little attention, unlike most of the other women who were there who were immediately accosted by men with offers to buy them drinks. Curious. I mean don't big breasts warrant a drink too? Are we protesting those now too? (Just for the record... I WILL be crossing that picket line - count on it)
As Jalen started down the first leg of the horseshoe, I glanced over at Solomon who had somehow found a way to strike up a conversation with one of the clubs proprieters, a man known as BJ. They talked, they drank, they laughed and drank some more. BJ had access to the VIP area, and somehow Solomon had convinced him to take us up. Perhaps I had shot too low in my expectations afterall. Maybe there was an even higher water mark to yet establish. If Solomon could keep this up, we were in good shape (but of course now, if you have read any of my previous blogs, you know how these things go - two words - not well). Solomon's debacle was merely beginning to take shape.
Lynchburg and Mario were now at the bar watching women walk in. There was one particular woman that stood out - the blonde who came strolling in to be precise. You certainly couldn't mistake her for a sister... I question if you could even mistake her for a lady... but again
... I wasn't drunk.
Because she was blond, she stood out automatically, but her chest just drew more attention. It was huge... it looked like two hot air balloons attacking one another from behind a tarp. That's a whole lotta salt water there. Anyhow, she walks by several times, receiving little attention, unlike most of the other women who were there who were immediately accosted by men with offers to buy them drinks. Curious. I mean don't big breasts warrant a drink too? Are we protesting those now too? (Just for the record... I WILL be crossing that picket line - count on it)
As she continues her fruitless walk-bys, I noticed her unsteadiness in her walk - and became concerned. Sure, going from a B-Cup to a HHH-Cup will tend to shift your center of gravity a little bit (and I'm all for that), but not so much that you forget how to walk in women's shoes altogether. I mean I realize the shoes don't come with training wheels on them, but if you've had any experience at all, a stroll past the bar shouldn't look like a walk on a tight rope - should it? Looking at her closely, I noticed a rather muscely calf and thigh region. It made me feel a dizzying sense of an unease - like I was running for my life after stepping off of a merry-go-round turning at 300 RPM. Was it possible that she was a former athelete or cheer leader... perhaps. But... those muscles, the density, the definition, it was all just too much. And then... oh yes, then I saw the prominent Adam's apple. And there it was, bouncing up in down in her neck like as she drank like; looking like she was actually swallowing ice cubes. She's a man ba-by - yeaaahhhhhh.
Perhaps this was only obvious to me (again - I wasn't drunk). Mario, almost immediately bought the "it" a drink; his debacle was now officially underway. Sensing a disturbance in the force, Solomon turns away from his conversation with BJ briefly to observe this impending train wreck. Sure alcohol had skewed Solomon's vision, his depth perception, even his decision making process, but even in his stupor... he knew something wasn't right about this... he looked briefly at Mario in tempered disbelief, then at me as I laughed out loud.
I understood his confusion... he wanted me to help make sense of what he was seeing... but I couldn't do it. He WAS seeing what he thought he was seeing; but inebriated as he was - he decided he just didn't care. He hunched his shoulders and got back on with the important business of getting us into VIP. Afterall we had just met Mario... no one really knew him except Lynchburg, maybe he had some sort of Eddie Murphy thing for Transvestites. You know, to talk to them about the dangers of "street life".
It's 5 minutes later, and Jalen has returned (without dancing) looking for his drink (as I told you he would). His disgust is evident. "Yo man, the women in here are tripping man, they're on some ole, other level $h!t you know what I mean, I'm talking about some inter-galactic empire $h!t".
Trying futily not to laugh, cause there's no telling where he's going with this, I ask him to explain what he means, he responds with, "I'm saying, who do I need to be, or who do I need to know to get a dance up in here... do I need to have connections with Bill Gates? How come these chicks ain't dancin'?" I look around briefly snickering and reply, "there's plenty of people dancin'". "Not with me!" he replied.
I remind Jalen, that in fact, he IS wearing a black t-shirt with the words "You're wasted" written on the front in fuzzy white letters. "Right, right, true, true", he says acknowledging the poor selection in wardrobe.
"But I'm sayin' though, they're tripping, I'm not talking about the women hitting you with that, my feet are hurting excuse, at least they're sitting down. The women I was asking were lined up against the wall dancing. How can you tell me you don't want to dance? You already are... I'm just asking you to move 5 feet off the wall while you're doing it... you know what I'm sayin?"
I'm laughing out loud at this point... Jalen's debacle has now run it's course - he finishes his drink (and disillusioned with the prospect of dancing with anyone) looks to catch up with Solomon... meanwhile Mario's debacle is now dare I say it; in full blossom? He is still buying drinks for the "it" still apparently unaware that it was an "it". Finally, mercifully, Lynchburg steps in and pulls him to the side - to give him the memo.
***You know there's something sadistic yet wildly amusing about watching some one coming to a shocking realization. There's the smile of confidence and comfort that fades into an expressionless stare, the neutral look of disbelief, and then the abject look of disgust, horror that just screams out "say it ain't so". You could almost see Mario talking himself through the realization, "so that's why nobody else wanted her?"***
Solomon and Jalen had taken up a spot on the couches working out the particulars of what needed to happen to get us into VIP. Horribly scarred, Mario, went to another end of the bar, away from the "it" to try to regroup (I'm forseeing the need for some sort of 12 step program in the near future) and Lynchburg sat down on another corner couch... next to uh - let's call her Ms. Thing.
Ms. Thing, in her infinite wisdom, thought it made sense to sit her Martini glass on the soft and oh-so uneven surface of the leather couch as opposed to the table, which oddly was sitting near by. It's almost as if the club owners wanted you to use the table as a place to set your drinks. I realize this flies in the face of Conventional Wisdom.
After watching events unfold, I can only conclude that Ms. Thing was somewhat unfamiliar with the nuances of Rigid Body Dynamics. She actually seemed surprised that her drink would spill on the couch and her dress, when Lynchburg sat down - (I could forsee no other possible outcome - but again - I wasn't drunk). Lynchburg apologized for knocking over the drink and offered to buy her another drink... and thus began his debacle.
Infuriated that her drink was spilled (oh the injustice of it all) Ms. Thing begins yelling at Lynchburg for his acts, creating as much of a scene and attracting as much attention as possible, and then she began to demand several times that he buy her another drink - in spite of the fact that he had already offered to. In a strange turn of events, Lynchburg becomes annoyed with the antics. He subsequently decided that he had been far too generous in his offer to buy her another drink, and ammended his offer to instead, get her nothing. (You see how this is escalating right?)
Ms. Thing walks off irrate, yelling, screaming, and drawing attention all the way. Lynchburg's response to the fracas, to buy himself another drink - a rum and coke.
And that's where fun and games begin, you see, Ms. Thing had only led us to believe that she had left the vicinity. She had secretly doubled back around behind the bar and laid in wait like a covert commando. The moment that Lynchburg sat the drink down, she swooped in from the left, cocking back with all her might and swatting the drink across the room with a slap that would make a pimp proud. Ms. Thing was apparently pleased with the distance the cup flew on her first attempt, and decided to walk away - still talking. Lynchburg to his credit, just chalked up that drink, and decided to call it even.
Of course this is not the end of it - Oh no - that would be far too easy. Ms. Thing decided that in addition to slapping his drink, she should have her boyfriend come over and make Lynchburg buy another drink (yes... I am serious... this actually happened). I can see her in the distance talking to some dude, who proceeds to walk over, and ladies and gentleman, this is where it gets interesting.
As he was talking to Ms. Thing, he was standing to the side, all I could see was a profile, he looked like a normal human being, however as he turned to walk over in our direction, all I could see was the silhouette of Terrible Terry Tate, the Office Linebacker. The pain train is coming - Woo Wooooooooooooo!!! For reasons that should be obvious, I didn't care much for Ms. Thing, but starting a fisticuffs with this mammoth, on Lynchburgs behalf was not an option.
My individual plan was to get a running start, and to crack a chair over his back, and continue sprinting to the door and the car in the parking lot (notice how there is no pause inbetween the chair over the back and my desperate scramble for the door. It is all one seemless event). Solomon and Jalen were contemplating a group effort in throwing a table at him. They may or may not have opted to run away afterwards (my gut instincts tell me they would).
Fortunately, there is some truth to the addage that opposites attract. While Ms. Thing was as nasty as a pitbull in a dress, the boyfriend was calm, cool, and in no rush to have conflict. A big as he was, he could have turned Lynchburg into black mashed potatoes if they had actually fought, but instead he came over and gestured with his hands and said, "Aye, look, I know how my girl is... I know you probably didn't do anything... and it's all cool... so tell you what, take this money" he handed Lynchburg some folded up ones, "and act like you're giving it to me. She'll think I talked to you, that you gave me money for another drink and that'll shut her up... I mean I know how she is... so I'm not even beefing with you at all... you out here trying to have a good time, and so am I. I just want to shut her up". Lynchburg obliged (as if he really had a choice) and handed the man back his money - and the boyfriend left (We learned later that, the boyfriend was actually another proprieter of the club... so it was probably a good thing that I didn't put a chair across his back - I can't see that one working out on the plus side for me)
With disaster avoided, everyone returns back to their activities; for Lynchburg, it's ordering another drink (and this time holding on to it). Much to his chagrin, attention has returned to Mario, who has had his confidence shaken badly after his brief courtship with the "it". So unsure of himself at this point, so paranoid of being swindled by another "he-she" he is now spurning the advances of legitimate women... dime pieces in fact. I will grant you that one of the chicks was somewhat athletic... but in a Serena Williams kind of way, not a "RuPaul" way. Mario would have none of it. Suddenly, every woman in the room now was a transvestite; no exceptions.
"Naw man, look at her shoulders, they're too muscular"
"Her voice is too deep, that's a man"
"Something ain't right about how she's walking, I think she is a he"
"Oh now, see... she's drinking a Heineken... only dudes like Heinekens"
I mean it went from borderline to hard core ridiculous (you see what one bad decision can do to you kids?)
I later bumped into Solomon (literally - because he has had so much to drink he can barely stand up straight). He looked at me, straining to focus, and recognizing me he said, "two sips too many..."
I look at him confused... "What?"
"Two sips too many... those two sips were the ones" he said, stumbling towards the corner sofa (the sofa where the Drink Javelin event had been held previously - with Ms. Thing capturing gold). He just kept repeating it "two sips, two sips" and holding up two fingers. I realize at this point, that there will be no VIP action. I figured within the next 30 minutes Solomon would pass out, and in the 30 minutes that followed he would be "giving it back to the earth" - except in this case it would be all over the carpet of the club. The clock had started.
Mario and Lynchburg are still at the bar strong. I mysef having been under the hot sun all day, am just beat. Knowing that Solomon is going to pass out soon, I take a spot nearby him so he doesn't get robbed - but soon I fall asleep too. I awake when one of the bouncers shook me by my arm laughing as he asked, "Is this your boy?"
Disorientated, I ask "who".
"This guy right here", he said laughing; the other bounces with him were laughing too.
"Yeah, I got him". "Is your boy alive?", he said still laughing. I looked at Solomon, and looked back at the bouncer and said, "ummmm... I don't know... let me see". They bust out laughing. I shake Solomon a few times and he opens up his eyes disorientated - and they laugh some more and walk away. I'm feeling like it's time to go... Solomon is passed out, and Jalen is ready to go to (no, he never danced with anyone that night).
The rule of thumb in drinking (at least one of them) is if the alcohol puts you out, it will also wake you up. And 15 minutes after the bouncers came over, the alcohol summoned Solomon, who woke up and heaved a mighty river on the floor. Clearly it is time to go. Lynchburg and Mario didn't think so... afterall it was only 3:30 a.m. and the club didn't close till 4:00 a.m. My inability to stay awake, Solomon's cookie tossing extravaganza, and Jalen's desire to leave apparently was not a compelling argument for us to leave.
They remained firmly anchored to their seats in the club saying, "just give us 15 more minutes". Huh??? 15 more minutes? Solomon won't be throwing up 15 minutes from now, he is throwing up as we speak. We NEED to GO... NOW.
They didn't budge, "okay let us just get two more drinks..." I look around to find Jalen to take Solomon out to the car - and away from the scene of the crime. 15 minutes actually pass and Lynchburg and Mario still aren't ready to go.
"Yo we gotta roll man," I say. Solomon now has begun to gather his wits and he echos my concerns, "aye yo, man it's time to go". "Alright, hold on we're coming, we're getting one more drink". I respond (with what I can only describe as a growing sense of unhappiness), "dude... no more drinks... let's go... "
"What's your rush man, there' s people still milling around in here"
"Yeah... but they're the cleaning staff. They're waiting for you to leave too. I mean, the lights are up and the music is off... the only thing left to do out here is start pushing a broom... everyone else is in the parking lot looking for their car... It's time to go, let's roll."
Lynchburg and Mario look at each other, and relunctantly extract themselves from the bar - faces wearing a strange look of disappointment... like they were leaving just before the strippers burst through the ceiling, landed on the bar counter, and started getting naked... (and wouldn't Mario have claimed that they were all Transvestites anyway)? What more were they hoping to see? Did they want to watch the drinking glasses as they dried to determine once and for all if Cascade really cleaned your dishes without leaving spots? I mean come on.
We pile into Mario's car, and immediately I and Solomon question the logic in having Mario drive. Yes it was his car, but didn't he just step away from the bar? He insists that he is fine to drive (and again, you know how these blogs go... he isn't). We aren't on the road much longer than 5 minutes before Mario starts having problems. It was at a left hand turn, with an oddly placed median in the road which made it difficult to judge which side of the road was which; I admit this much. I was sober, and I couldn't tell right away, that he was on the wrong side of the road. It took me about 0.72 seconds. Mario took a little bit longer, (as I recall it was a spirited 7 second conversation)
Me: "Aye yo man what are you doing?" Mario keeps driving
Solomon: "Aye you son, you going the wrong way" Mario keeps driving
Mario: "Naw this is the right direction" Mario keeps driving
Me: "Yeah but we're on the wrong side" Mario keeps driving
Jalen: "Aye man do you see those headlights in front of you?" Mario keeps driving
Solomon: "Yo man pull over, you're on the wrong side of the road" Mario keeps driving
Mario: "I'm trying man" ...but Mario keeps driving
Me: "Aye yo, there's a car coming" Mario keeps driving
Solomon: "Aye yo, the car man, the car" Mario keeps driving
Mario: "What you want me to do?" Mario keeps driving
It's 5 minutes later, and Jalen has returned (without dancing) looking for his drink (as I told you he would). His disgust is evident. "Yo man, the women in here are tripping man, they're on some ole, other level $h!t you know what I mean, I'm talking about some inter-galactic empire $h!t".
Trying futily not to laugh, cause there's no telling where he's going with this, I ask him to explain what he means, he responds with, "I'm saying, who do I need to be, or who do I need to know to get a dance up in here... do I need to have connections with Bill Gates? How come these chicks ain't dancin'?" I look around briefly snickering and reply, "there's plenty of people dancin'". "Not with me!" he replied.
I remind Jalen, that in fact, he IS wearing a black t-shirt with the words "You're wasted" written on the front in fuzzy white letters. "Right, right, true, true", he says acknowledging the poor selection in wardrobe.
"But I'm sayin' though, they're tripping, I'm not talking about the women hitting you with that, my feet are hurting excuse, at least they're sitting down. The women I was asking were lined up against the wall dancing. How can you tell me you don't want to dance? You already are... I'm just asking you to move 5 feet off the wall while you're doing it... you know what I'm sayin?"
I'm laughing out loud at this point... Jalen's debacle has now run it's course - he finishes his drink (and disillusioned with the prospect of dancing with anyone) looks to catch up with Solomon... meanwhile Mario's debacle is now dare I say it; in full blossom? He is still buying drinks for the "it" still apparently unaware that it was an "it". Finally, mercifully, Lynchburg steps in and pulls him to the side - to give him the memo.
***You know there's something sadistic yet wildly amusing about watching some one coming to a shocking realization. There's the smile of confidence and comfort that fades into an expressionless stare, the neutral look of disbelief, and then the abject look of disgust, horror that just screams out "say it ain't so". You could almost see Mario talking himself through the realization, "so that's why nobody else wanted her?"***
Solomon and Jalen had taken up a spot on the couches working out the particulars of what needed to happen to get us into VIP. Horribly scarred, Mario, went to another end of the bar, away from the "it" to try to regroup (I'm forseeing the need for some sort of 12 step program in the near future) and Lynchburg sat down on another corner couch... next to uh - let's call her Ms. Thing.
Ms. Thing, in her infinite wisdom, thought it made sense to sit her Martini glass on the soft and oh-so uneven surface of the leather couch as opposed to the table, which oddly was sitting near by. It's almost as if the club owners wanted you to use the table as a place to set your drinks. I realize this flies in the face of Conventional Wisdom.
After watching events unfold, I can only conclude that Ms. Thing was somewhat unfamiliar with the nuances of Rigid Body Dynamics. She actually seemed surprised that her drink would spill on the couch and her dress, when Lynchburg sat down - (I could forsee no other possible outcome - but again - I wasn't drunk). Lynchburg apologized for knocking over the drink and offered to buy her another drink... and thus began his debacle.
Infuriated that her drink was spilled (oh the injustice of it all) Ms. Thing begins yelling at Lynchburg for his acts, creating as much of a scene and attracting as much attention as possible, and then she began to demand several times that he buy her another drink - in spite of the fact that he had already offered to. In a strange turn of events, Lynchburg becomes annoyed with the antics. He subsequently decided that he had been far too generous in his offer to buy her another drink, and ammended his offer to instead, get her nothing. (You see how this is escalating right?)
Ms. Thing walks off irrate, yelling, screaming, and drawing attention all the way. Lynchburg's response to the fracas, to buy himself another drink - a rum and coke.
And that's where fun and games begin, you see, Ms. Thing had only led us to believe that she had left the vicinity. She had secretly doubled back around behind the bar and laid in wait like a covert commando. The moment that Lynchburg sat the drink down, she swooped in from the left, cocking back with all her might and swatting the drink across the room with a slap that would make a pimp proud. Ms. Thing was apparently pleased with the distance the cup flew on her first attempt, and decided to walk away - still talking. Lynchburg to his credit, just chalked up that drink, and decided to call it even.
Of course this is not the end of it - Oh no - that would be far too easy. Ms. Thing decided that in addition to slapping his drink, she should have her boyfriend come over and make Lynchburg buy another drink (yes... I am serious... this actually happened). I can see her in the distance talking to some dude, who proceeds to walk over, and ladies and gentleman, this is where it gets interesting.
As he was talking to Ms. Thing, he was standing to the side, all I could see was a profile, he looked like a normal human being, however as he turned to walk over in our direction, all I could see was the silhouette of Terrible Terry Tate, the Office Linebacker. The pain train is coming - Woo Wooooooooooooo!!! For reasons that should be obvious, I didn't care much for Ms. Thing, but starting a fisticuffs with this mammoth, on Lynchburgs behalf was not an option.
My individual plan was to get a running start, and to crack a chair over his back, and continue sprinting to the door and the car in the parking lot (notice how there is no pause inbetween the chair over the back and my desperate scramble for the door. It is all one seemless event). Solomon and Jalen were contemplating a group effort in throwing a table at him. They may or may not have opted to run away afterwards (my gut instincts tell me they would).
Fortunately, there is some truth to the addage that opposites attract. While Ms. Thing was as nasty as a pitbull in a dress, the boyfriend was calm, cool, and in no rush to have conflict. A big as he was, he could have turned Lynchburg into black mashed potatoes if they had actually fought, but instead he came over and gestured with his hands and said, "Aye, look, I know how my girl is... I know you probably didn't do anything... and it's all cool... so tell you what, take this money" he handed Lynchburg some folded up ones, "and act like you're giving it to me. She'll think I talked to you, that you gave me money for another drink and that'll shut her up... I mean I know how she is... so I'm not even beefing with you at all... you out here trying to have a good time, and so am I. I just want to shut her up". Lynchburg obliged (as if he really had a choice) and handed the man back his money - and the boyfriend left (We learned later that, the boyfriend was actually another proprieter of the club... so it was probably a good thing that I didn't put a chair across his back - I can't see that one working out on the plus side for me)
With disaster avoided, everyone returns back to their activities; for Lynchburg, it's ordering another drink (and this time holding on to it). Much to his chagrin, attention has returned to Mario, who has had his confidence shaken badly after his brief courtship with the "it". So unsure of himself at this point, so paranoid of being swindled by another "he-she" he is now spurning the advances of legitimate women... dime pieces in fact. I will grant you that one of the chicks was somewhat athletic... but in a Serena Williams kind of way, not a "RuPaul" way. Mario would have none of it. Suddenly, every woman in the room now was a transvestite; no exceptions.
"Naw man, look at her shoulders, they're too muscular"
"Her voice is too deep, that's a man"
"Something ain't right about how she's walking, I think she is a he"
"Oh now, see... she's drinking a Heineken... only dudes like Heinekens"
I mean it went from borderline to hard core ridiculous (you see what one bad decision can do to you kids?)
I later bumped into Solomon (literally - because he has had so much to drink he can barely stand up straight). He looked at me, straining to focus, and recognizing me he said, "two sips too many..."
I look at him confused... "What?"
"Two sips too many... those two sips were the ones" he said, stumbling towards the corner sofa (the sofa where the Drink Javelin event had been held previously - with Ms. Thing capturing gold). He just kept repeating it "two sips, two sips" and holding up two fingers. I realize at this point, that there will be no VIP action. I figured within the next 30 minutes Solomon would pass out, and in the 30 minutes that followed he would be "giving it back to the earth" - except in this case it would be all over the carpet of the club. The clock had started.
Mario and Lynchburg are still at the bar strong. I mysef having been under the hot sun all day, am just beat. Knowing that Solomon is going to pass out soon, I take a spot nearby him so he doesn't get robbed - but soon I fall asleep too. I awake when one of the bouncers shook me by my arm laughing as he asked, "Is this your boy?"
Disorientated, I ask "who".
"This guy right here", he said laughing; the other bounces with him were laughing too.
"Yeah, I got him". "Is your boy alive?", he said still laughing. I looked at Solomon, and looked back at the bouncer and said, "ummmm... I don't know... let me see". They bust out laughing. I shake Solomon a few times and he opens up his eyes disorientated - and they laugh some more and walk away. I'm feeling like it's time to go... Solomon is passed out, and Jalen is ready to go to (no, he never danced with anyone that night).
The rule of thumb in drinking (at least one of them) is if the alcohol puts you out, it will also wake you up. And 15 minutes after the bouncers came over, the alcohol summoned Solomon, who woke up and heaved a mighty river on the floor. Clearly it is time to go. Lynchburg and Mario didn't think so... afterall it was only 3:30 a.m. and the club didn't close till 4:00 a.m. My inability to stay awake, Solomon's cookie tossing extravaganza, and Jalen's desire to leave apparently was not a compelling argument for us to leave.
They remained firmly anchored to their seats in the club saying, "just give us 15 more minutes". Huh??? 15 more minutes? Solomon won't be throwing up 15 minutes from now, he is throwing up as we speak. We NEED to GO... NOW.
They didn't budge, "okay let us just get two more drinks..." I look around to find Jalen to take Solomon out to the car - and away from the scene of the crime. 15 minutes actually pass and Lynchburg and Mario still aren't ready to go.
"Yo we gotta roll man," I say. Solomon now has begun to gather his wits and he echos my concerns, "aye yo, man it's time to go". "Alright, hold on we're coming, we're getting one more drink". I respond (with what I can only describe as a growing sense of unhappiness), "dude... no more drinks... let's go... "
"What's your rush man, there' s people still milling around in here"
"Yeah... but they're the cleaning staff. They're waiting for you to leave too. I mean, the lights are up and the music is off... the only thing left to do out here is start pushing a broom... everyone else is in the parking lot looking for their car... It's time to go, let's roll."
Lynchburg and Mario look at each other, and relunctantly extract themselves from the bar - faces wearing a strange look of disappointment... like they were leaving just before the strippers burst through the ceiling, landed on the bar counter, and started getting naked... (and wouldn't Mario have claimed that they were all Transvestites anyway)? What more were they hoping to see? Did they want to watch the drinking glasses as they dried to determine once and for all if Cascade really cleaned your dishes without leaving spots? I mean come on.
We pile into Mario's car, and immediately I and Solomon question the logic in having Mario drive. Yes it was his car, but didn't he just step away from the bar? He insists that he is fine to drive (and again, you know how these blogs go... he isn't). We aren't on the road much longer than 5 minutes before Mario starts having problems. It was at a left hand turn, with an oddly placed median in the road which made it difficult to judge which side of the road was which; I admit this much. I was sober, and I couldn't tell right away, that he was on the wrong side of the road. It took me about 0.72 seconds. Mario took a little bit longer, (as I recall it was a spirited 7 second conversation)
Me: "Aye yo man what are you doing?" Mario keeps driving
Solomon: "Aye you son, you going the wrong way" Mario keeps driving
Mario: "Naw this is the right direction" Mario keeps driving
Me: "Yeah but we're on the wrong side" Mario keeps driving
Jalen: "Aye man do you see those headlights in front of you?" Mario keeps driving
Solomon: "Yo man pull over, you're on the wrong side of the road" Mario keeps driving
Mario: "I'm trying man" ...but Mario keeps driving
Me: "Aye yo, there's a car coming" Mario keeps driving
Solomon: "Aye yo, the car man, the car" Mario keeps driving
Mario: "What you want me to do?" Mario keeps driving
IN UNISON
All: "Pull the f*ck over!!!"
Mario pulls over (finally) after skipping at least 2 drive through exits and entrances where he could have stopped and narrowly avoiding a head on collision. He slumps over the wheel with embarassed disappointment. "Man I was trying to pull over", Mario offered weakly. Sensing a petition to continue driving was forthcoming from Mario, Solomon ended any potential debate... immediately.
Solomon: "Nope, get out the car son"
Mario: "But I'm okay"
Solomon: "Nope, get out" (remember now - this IS Mario's car)
Mario: "I just missed the turn, I'm fine..."
Solomon: "Oh no buddy, you are done"
Mario: "But it's my car..."
Solomon: "And I'm in it... and you are not going to kill me, so get out ... let him drive" he said pointing to me, "He's sober he won't crash your car"
Mario: "I'm good"
Solomon: "No you're not... it ain't no need in even debating it, let's go"
The motion on the floor is to allow Mario to continue driving. Are you ready for the Question? Question! All those in favor of allowing Mario to continue to drive signify by the sound of "Aye". Aye. Those opposed ... NAY!!!. The Nays have it, the motion does not carry.
As relunctantly as he was pried away from the bar, so to was Mario finally relieved of his command of his car. Adding insult to injury was his request from the back seat that we at least stop at the strip club on our way back to the hotel - a request that I ordinarily would have honored but at 4:30 a.m. I figured even strippers need to sleep. I drove past the well lit Strip Club, without even slowing down (not even for the Red Traffic Light).
The chair does not recognize the drunken gentleman in the back of the car. You do not have the floor, you will come to order.
And before you get to thinking that I'm being kind of callous with your boy, remember: This is the same man that, a few hours ago, was getting up close and personal-like with the "man-she" and just recently was ousted out of the driver's seat of his own car for attempt to play Sub-Urban Bumper Cars - any ego damage on this night was self-inflicted.
posted by WAR | 9:19 PM
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