Wading in the Velvet Sea

This is all a long way of saying that these are the mental circumstances under which I decided to go out last Friday night. I only get a few of these chances a month (until June, but that’s another story for another time), so I try to not blow my chance. Or, since we’re talking about money here, blow my wad. Of cash. Wad of cash. Why are you looking at my that way? Oh. OH. You sick-o. Honestly!

Went to for a friend’s birthday party down by Fanueil Hall, the same locale she had come out to celebrate my birthday with me back in November. Like the Mafia, I believe in rewarding loyalty, so I figured I’d bless the event with my presence and two crisp $20s in my pocket, placed there as a limit on my own alcoholism. Figured that there couldn’t possibly be a way I’d overspend. After all, I’d tossed down a few $2 beers before arriving at dinner. And I didn’t plan on staying long, anyways. I didn’t know any of my friend’s friends, and while I might seem all rico suave online, in real life I’m not so much with the “socializing with new people”. Especially if they’re ugly. Can’t handle that. Not that I knew her friends to be ugly, nor were there, I’m just putting all the cards on the table here.

So, socially lubricated and blingin’ with my $40, I walk into the bar thirty minutes after my friend said she’d arrive. And, of course, she wasn’t there. For 30 minutes, I was officially “that guy at the bar by himself looking sketchy with a beer in his hand”. Just an excruciately long half hour there. Finally, she arrives with entourage in tow, and to say they looked skeptically upon me is an understatement. I guess I shouldn’t have worn the “I Handle Curves Better than European Sport Cars” baby t/low rider corduroys combo. Well, you know, hindsight’s 20/20, etc. So my plan of “finish my beer, buy her a drink, and then leave having fulfilled my duty” looked well within reach.

Thing was, this was my forth 20 ounce beer of the night, so fairly automatically, I bought a fifth, under the glam of that harpy, hops. ‘Twas a very “It’s so good when it hits your lips!” moment. So there I am, Frank the Tank, trying to make awkward conversations with people who looked like they really wanted to know nothing about it. “So, um, you like…breathing?” was about all I could come up with. Not the most receptive group. My friend was friendly enough, but I didn’t want to be that guy who monopolizes the host’s time, so much mental energy was focused on the Celtics’ game on the widescreen TV. Yes, Celtics. Hey, Walker’s back. Wearing 88 now. Clanging 3’s. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.

It’s now around 9:45, the time when bars start to fill up, the music starts transitioning from “pleasant but not really danceable” to “stuff people danced to in college to get them on the dance floor”. When I arrived, they were playing Goo Goo Dolls, and now they were playing “Baby Got Back”. This trend works because it’s timed to concur just as the girls in the bar have had a few drinks and are looking for an excuse to hootch it up under the guise of “I’m so tipsy”. It’s a genius plan and works without fail, each side playing its part to perfection, neither consciously admitting the symbiosis. It's not quite the circle of life Elton John sang about, but it's something.

So, now, in between myself and the television, I notice two such girls under the spell of Sir Mix-A-Lot. Not necessarily hootching it up…far too modestly dressed for that. But doing the “dancing without abandon” thing. I set an internal timer for “less than 15 minutes” for a certain something to happen. Knew it would. Just needed to be patient.

At minute 12, it happened.

The Freaker arrived.

To be continued....

Update: Continued here...