So me and Matt were hanging out…
Actually we weren’t. It was a Friday and he was heading towards my house to meet his girlfriend. I rarely hang out with the guy considering how much I see him, and I told him I’d like to go as well. I would never miss an opportunity to get drunk.
Also, Kelsen has the energy of a 95 year old, and I suggest we go to my house where he can take a nap and I can begin drinking. He sleeps in my bed and I down 3 beers in the space of 30 minutes. Not a big deal, as alcohol consumption goes, but I was tired and had not eaten.
He woke up and came downstairs. Me and the roommate were chilling on the couch and I was beginning to feel the effects of my anxiety coming on. You see, I get nervous and my stomach, which is already tiny due to birdcage-like accommodations, constricts. I was nervous about hanging out with people I did not know, and even my friend for that matter. This always happens. Anyway, he comes down and starts complimenting my decor, or properly my roommate’s decor. There is mention of my laundry list of women and dates on my wall: this girl this day, this girl the next. The list was just a reminder to call my sisters on their respective birthdays.
I begin to think maybe he will just go and forget that I had invited myself along.
“Are you ready?”
Shit. So I’m going, then. Not a big deal. But I’m a little tipsy. I hadn’t showered, as I recall. I put on a thin black tie and my cap, and we set off for Ra Sushi in Miramar.
We arrive, the place is jumping and we sit down at a table with at least 10 other people. Right proper fucking party, this was. To my right is Kelsen and his mate, to the left a bearded fella and his chirpy girlfriend.
Mayhem ensues. They have a terrific drink combination at this place and I tender the information to you with highest praise and joyful memories that make my liver shudder. For a mere seven dollars you get a little tankard or whatever-the-fuck they call it of sake, hot (which I still find odd and rather vinegary) and a big boy size 24 oz beer. Fucking 7 dollars, people! That’s ridiculous. For an import and what must be rotten sake? Whatever, it’s alcohol. Which means it works. And quickly.
I’m sure I was loud by this point. I certainly was pissing more, and there is a correlation, I’m certain. I think I drain any civilities into the toilet and all that’s left is some halfassed loudmouth Irishman. I recall a time before when I started up with an English accent for the fuck of it, and was nearly beaten for its use. But that’s another story.
Fucking light beer. Goddamn it.
So I come back to the table and find that the party had reached a beautiful boiling point. You know when you heat the water and everything is just roiling? It’s perfect. That’s why you add the pasta. Well, people had abandoned the safety of their stools and had begun to mingle and cluster. One big group, but within were little ones all the same. A veritable microcosm.
Sidebar, I just broke a fucking lowball glass with my ankle. WTF. I’m sitting here, being writerly and all, drinking beer from a little glass like a Brit, and I can’t see behind my laptop screen, right? So I reach behind to set the glass down, but place it half off the table and the thing falls and shatters on my ankle. My ankle.
I broke glass with my fucking ANKLE.
And then there’s the humiliating cleanup afterwards. Blood is mixing with alcohol in my sock. This is a new one.
Fuck, back to the story.
I came back and found a group. It had a mildly attractive female in it. As I recall/what I was told was that she had a weird mouth, but a decent body. And, getting laid or not, if you have a penis, have a drink, and see a girl, whether your intentions are good or not, you WILL make a go of it. And so of course I entered and put myself directly between the man and his girl.
Or so Kelsen tells me. He recounted to me that he was telling his girlfriend what I was doing. It was very methodical so he thought. Maybe. I don’t know. I was drunk. I can’t imagine I had the wherewithal to run any kind of organized game. Let alone push out a guy from his own girlfriend.
Nevertheless they were laughing and having fun either because of me or at my expense.
Here’s where it gets hazy. I don’t know who was buying at this point, but someone was. I am dependent on Kelsen’s narrative from here on in.
As I’m told, I wanted to go have a cigarette, and the little pistol wanted to have one with me. Cool cool. So we walked outside and smoked a cigarette. Except that cigarette took a good half hour to smoke.
From what I remember, this is where I gracefully bid adieu to my wonderful newfound friends. Called my coach, donned my white gloves and doffed my black hat as I said my farewells to all and sundry, retiring to my estate and gentle slumber.
However, I’m told that in fact I called Kelsen some time later. He thought I had gone off and fucked the princess, but it turns out that after we parted over cigarettes, she went and talked up, in succession, every other swinging dick at the table. So much for my powers of woo-ry.
You might ask why I’d call someone with whom I had arrived and was still at the same establishment. As it happens, I had passed out in front of my car in the parking lot. There’s more to it than that, though. I was found by a couple of guys who looked exactly like the “coincidence African guy” from I heart Huckabee’s. Like dead on. They told me I couldn’t sleep in the parking lot.
“Well what about my mobile bed?” No. I can’t sleep in my car either. Fucking pricks.
I called Kelsen and he managed to get me home. We broke my window so I could grab my cash and camera. The next day though, the first thing I texted Kelsen was, “Is my tie in your car?”
I couldn’t find it. It was a $40 tie, you understand. Important.
Anyway this story is getting boring. There’s blood on my ankle and I really wish I was getting laid. But, I’m at home. Clicking away a story. I’ve got another really good one though. So keep your ears pricked.
Now fuck off.
