Let me just begin by saying "Goddamn that Stella Artois. She's a fair, beautiful, fickle, back-stabbing bitch. Why-oh-why do I love her so??"
Now that it's off my chest, I can move on. Went to the pub last night (I looked for a link and there is zippo out there - which will tie in neatly later, read on) and saw the Indulgers with BB and Virtigo (sorry, V, just can't get the rhythm of the full stops in the name. They know who I mean). PHF opted to stay home with the kidlets and get his ass whomped on PS2 by the Lad, and then subsequently by some twelve year old on-line, so I was stag (or, I dunno - what do you call it when a chick is on her own?).
It was couple's night at the pub, and someone forgot to mention it to me. No one to smooch with on the dance floor. No one to ravish me in the basement bathroom. *sigh* But we had fun anyway.
The evening began with yet another episode in "The Temperamental Zippo." I can't recall if I've mentioned it, but I got a Zippo lighter for Christmas. For those of you in the know, it's like the one K uses in the books. For those of you not in the know, a Zippo is the kind of lighter with a flip back lid, the kind Granddaddy used to use. It was another thoughtful gift from PHF - god, I love that man. Anyway, the thing has been pretty much a pain in the ass since I got it. It lights only when it damn well pleases; as in, when there's no cigarette present. Produce a cigarette and the thing just sparks like, well, something that only sparks.
Damien to the rescue. The man is a wonderful singer and song writer; however, in true Irish style (he's the real McCoy, so to speak) he drinks and smokes like a fiend. A man after my own heart, really. So of course he had a light for us, and we asked him how he was this evening.
"Grand, just grand. Waiting to see if I can spot any trouble."
Virtigo said something to the effect of "here she is," (indicating myself). Damien tactfully ignored that. I tend to flagrantly flirt with him and he is quite the gentleman about it. It was a tad early, since I was only one pint into the night. The flirting quotient goes up as the evening progresses, while his resistance goes down. But the most forward thing he's ever done is given me a hug when I complemented him on his beard (which was gone last night - he said the wife didn't like it, so I figured it wouldn't last long).
Longtime readers know that weird shit often happens at the pub (aka, The Knitter). There are the regulars, the "groupies," most of whom were not in attendance last night. Dunno why. Then there are the "sub-groupies", of which I'm probably, reluctantly admitted, a part.
Well, it was pretty quiet in there so we got the primo watching spot, close to the bar, where I can stand - I prefer to stand when drinking - and everyone else can sit. Unfortunately, there was one seat left over (damn us for being polite and not saving it for "a friend" who would never show!) So of course we get stuck with the Wannabe. He was a Wannabe in every sense of the word; he wanted to be attractive, he wanted to be clever, he wanted to be stylish, he wanted to be the life of the party, he wanted to be our friend. All of these things he was not.
Virtigo cleverly introduced herself as the wife and myself as the girlfriend of BB, so the asswipe asked BB if he could dance with either of us. God, some people don't have a fucking clue to the intricacies of a joke; especially when the joke is at their expense.
BB replied that, no, he wouldn't share the goods.
"Awww, come on."
"Nope. Sorry. I'm a selfish bastard."
So Wannabe proceeded to course through the crowd like a bad case of food poisoning, striking wherever and whoever caught his fancy. Lads and birds alike rejected his advances, lips were literally turning up in derision.
Did he notice?
I don't think I need to answer that.
And we, parked at his "home base" so to speak, bore our fair share of the brunt of the assault. Every so often he'd come back, put his hands on our backs, spit into our ears (I think he was saying something, but I was trying hard not to listen). I even made a plea to a bouncer (who didn't catch on) to come save us. Ok, I was only joking with the bouncer. Well, sort of. He's another one who doesn't have a clue, but that's another story.
I finally said to Virtigo, "I don't like to be touched much, you know. Especially by strangers."
She did know.
"So I'm just sayin' that when he comes back I'm gonna tell him that."
So I did.
Part of assholes' assholeness apparently is acting completely affronted when someone tries to temper their assholish behavior. All I said was, "You know, I really don't like to be touched." I think Virtigo said something as well, but I didn't catch it. He backed away, hands raised like we had a Mk 23 pointed at him (a fantasy I nurtured in the night) and needless to say left us the hell alone after that.
See Jack? No ball-kicking required.
Then there was the psycho. Virtigo nudged me. "Don't look now, but there's a psycho stalking us."
Man, she was right. The guy looked like a head case. He was definitely looking for someone to tie up in his shed, play with for awhile, and then cut up into teensy, zippy-bag-sized pieces. Something in the eyes. And he never quit staring at us all frickin' night. He disappeared right before we left, and I half expected him to drive by in a windowless, plastic tarp-lined white van and throw us in the back.
One guy tried to hit on me from afar, but once he danced... I felt like taking pity on him and going over, taking his hand, and telling him very gently, "You might not be ready to admit it to yourself, but dude, you're way gay."
Then there was the couple that sat nearest the band. Sat together, arms crossed and watched this fabulous Irish band play without so much as a toe-tap. Damien sat with them a bit. Perhaps they were family. Nothing like a family member to not enjoy your art.
Finally the crowd picked up at midnight. Cute boys abounded, and I should've liked to have danced with some of them. One guy scammed me pretty hard. Oh, he was cool about it, but chicks were trying to hook up with him all over, and he rejected all and kept glancing back at me. Nice for the ego, to be sure, but by then I'd lost interest.
There's only one dude for me, I thought, and he was at home in bed where I wanted to be. So I bought Damien a Stella, which Jerry the nice bartender bought for me (Thanks, Jerry!) and we headed for home.
Ok, BB and Virtigo, here's the post per your request. See? Daylight posts just don't do justice to the drunken revelry from the night before. It was loads of fun, though. Your turn, Virtigo.
Confidential to Cryptic: I should add that we checked out your comment on BB's Palm at the pub last night, pulled up your pic and showed you to a bunch of girls there. We all agree, you were the cutest boy present (well, sort of present.)