And on that now, I comment more...

It'd been a shitty day in the Midwest. The heat cooked apathy on the pavement as the great bud-lite colored beacon marinated all. The lab had been a bitch. A mountain was made out of a mole hill, manifested by one monkey's blood sample not being fully processed due to insufficient blood. Nevermind this was the first time it happened, and that it would not happen again. I had gotten shit, and I felt like shit.

The only thing I looked forward to the whole day was sushi. Lindsay had sent a general invite to feast on the stuff, at 8. I hadn't been to Wasaaaaaaabeh Sushi since I moved to this fucker. Little did I know the antics that would come.

I got there before everyone else. I'm on time so that often happens. I starred out from the two story concrete perch out along the fading sunset, to weird critters below and strangely puritanical blouses. I wore a crisp, metallic-grey long-sleeve affair, charcoal grey "like buttah" slacks and my new short hair. I looked like I should actually be out.

And then they started coming: the hip n' poor crowd o' Tat, Tat's boy Jar, and Bryan. Thems is my homies, indeed. And in short order there was Jes, her boyfriend Tour de France (since he professionally races), Lindsay, and a few of her friends that I'll salaciously elaborate on.

The stage was set.

Then the table was set. And before the bubbly waitress could leave, conversation broke out like a musical number. Trouble was, this was dress rehearsal. Oddly enough I got alot of questions or comments about this or that: how's my photography going, I was wondering about X and Y regarding digital cameras, good God you look good with short hair, etc. I was feeling social and all sortsa talkative, so I armed my smile and hands to be charming.

Sitting across from me, pensive and quiet, was a blonde spikey haired waif model of a man that Lindsay had brought. Now, I'm a heterosexual, but this man was gorgeous. And as we randomly hit off a conversation, he was unbelievably soft-spoken as well. An electrical engineer, he kept flashing me these wide, genuine smiles. He laughed when I was clever. In short, I do believe he was flirting subtly. And y'know I kinda liked it, so I smiled a bit more exaggerated than stone-cold-sober usually finds me.

And soon there was food. And even sooner, no food. We lingered as the waitress took her sweet time, and then flew off to La Plaza de Beer.

La Plaza is the firm crotch of the bar world: not the shitty, sticky floor dive like The Pube, nor an upscale swankily lit bowl of ambience like Crave. We all went in, ordered some drinks, and attempted to find a pool table. None. Then Bryan, Tat, Jar, and I decided on a round of darts while everyone else got their drink and sit on. We decided on the classic game where you go from 320 something to 0.

I've always preferred doing something in a bar. All the bonding without any of the bullshit.

The first game was just...just sad. I've played darts before, but you wouldn't have thought it. Still I didn't give a shit, I was having fun, and what's more they had stout specials for 2.50. Some brand called Oppenheimer or something.

And then, all the sudden during the 2nd game, I either remembered how to throw or God was taking pity on me. I kicked ass. I kicked enough ass to get two bullseyes and just the third score I needed to win. This blew the others away. This blew me away.

Around that time, the sitting folk decided to go to Crave to have sheik martinis piled to the heavens. I had a Scottish moment and thought they were fucking nuts for leaving 2.50 stout night. We collectively said, 'Fuck 'em, we'll catch up later', followed by a few chasers of toasting and chugging Budweiser. I proclaimed it the king of shit beers. Everyone agreed. So far as the 3rd game went, the same thing happened--maybe not quite as drop-your-pants spectacular, but enough to get props from everyone.

And then, mildly drunk, we went to Swanksville.

The Crave is a green day-glo shot of post-modern thoughtfulness, thrumming with downtempo and trance-ambient techno. The tables and booths are spacious, the corners smooth, and the atmosphere intimately urban. Bartenders wear 'fuck me' smiles with the grace of old movie stars. It was delightfully decadent.

I got extremely drunk over the course of this episodes. Things got...fuzzy.

Bryan, easily my best friend here, was sitting on my left taking down a gin and tonic. We still had Tat, Jar, Spikey Engineer dude, Lindsay, and another friend of hers with tartfully revealing holes in the front of her dress. Nothing was left to my imagination about size, directionality, or much else. Sadly that was the most interesting feature of her.

What followed was drink after drink: a G&T here, a butterfinger martini there, and moving on into that detached, euphoric feeling where you still feel like you've got full control.

Lindsay and, in particular, Bryan started to talk about how I should get pimped out. The hair looked damn good, I was a 'great guy' (which I think is code for 'has difficulty getting sex'), and I just needed to shop at this or that trendy boutique in order to transform in Fuckably Salacious Man. They seemed genuine and adamant about wanting to help me get laid. For Bryan, it's a quest; something he does for guys who haven't gotten the whole system worked out. Considering most of my prospects, exes, friends with benefits, etc. all sortof fell into my lap, I eagerly listened to them and soaked up their sayings.

And on a few occasions I complimented Lindsay on this or that. I can remember one bit where somehow breast size had come up. And I said the following with genuine resolve to her: "It's not the quantity, but the quality". She said more men should think like me. While having both is nice, there is that 'gorgeous face, svelt body' combination that's just damn fine. And she's quite attractive herself. I told Bryan as much in a drunken whisper. He thought we were both fairly shy people and that it was probably best not to make a move. Damn me if I wanted to put my arm around someone female, though. I just like the contact.

Nearing the end, another pair all of us knew came in. Lush euro trash the both of 'em, but amusing to talk to.

The night ended finally with, what else: eating greasy pizza at the local dive. We devoured that, stood outside, and waited around for some reason. It was about that time that a bushy bearded young dude suddenly came up to Bryan. He was waving his arms and jolting his head from side to side. He looked like a backpacking drifter. The barbarian dude was calling Bryan out to Free-Style. Bryan verbally kicked his ass in about two verses.

Somehow this battle prompted two black guys to come over. One was tricked out with two hats, no bling, and an easy-going attitude. Bryan and him dueled for awhile. Bryan says he kicked the guy's ass, but hell if I could tell at that point. The guy gave Bryan his number for some odd reason.

And as Tat, Jar, Bryan, and I walked off to go home, the barbarian dude followed us. He started making chicken clucking noises and doing the arms thing. One of us wondered what the fuck and asked. Apparently Bryan had beaten him, so he had do the chicken thing. And on he clucked while walking with us. I guess it's one of those "You have kicked my ass with your Three Dancing Tigers of Funk technique! I must learn from you, master!" moments.

Bryan and I live close by, so we walked back to his place weaving like fucks. What we talked about only the trees and less drunk people know. We gave a drunken male goodbye with shoulder patting and all that good shit, went to rest up, sober up, get through the hangover, and meet the day anew...and eventually, encounter another night of drunken debauchery.

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