Editor's note: this will be written while extremely intoxicated and edited while sober. The author will do her damndest to maintain the spirit of the drunken post while fixing numorous gramatical and spelling errors.
Virtigo and her better half bailed.
Yeah, I know. It sucks. We were headed for this goth club that plays awesome music. But after X many of days in Vegas (yeah, all together now: "POOR BB."), BB was feeling not quite so BB-ish. We're not spring chickens you know. We're getting up there.
I was so in the mood to part-ay. So a tame dinner out and perhaps a movie (which I didn't want to see anyway) was not going to fix this. I needed a night OUT goddammit. And to top it off, PHF was in a tetchy mood, due to much time with the children. Sweet as they are an afternoon will tax the most forgiving of psyches.
Hence a, er, discussion. It took the ride into Boulder to resolve our differences, and our pre-dinner apertif at the pub was stilted, to say the least. Dinner helped though. We both got food in our bellies and our moods lightened considerably.
But something weird happened at the restaurant. I fell.
On my ass.
Well, one cheek anyway. Actually it was quite graceful, considering. I ended up in side-thigh-knees-tucked-up-attractively, leaning-on-one-hand position. You know, like that chic in that painting who's sitting on the ground staring at her house in the distance and everyone wonders what the fuck she's doing way out there. Is she disabled? Is she lonely? Dreaming of a better life? Is that her ex-boyfriend's house?
Fortunately, I work out enough that a sudden fall is practically nothing. So no damage was taken, except to my ego. And that was mostly because some assholes at the bar laughed at me.
High heels? Check. New. 4 inches. Yeah, fuck-me shoes carry a risk.
Drunk? Two beers. Hardly.
The fucking floor was wet, and that, combined with new high heels, made for disaster.
You're wondering, of course, Who rushed to your rescue, Sex?
Nobody. Two fucking waiters were right there and neither one even asked me if I was ok. I sat there for a second before I sprang back up (I work out, you know). PHF definitely didn't see me or he would have been there. Any of my friends, guy or girl, would have rushed to my rescue. Ok, they would have laughed, but they would have stepped up. Greg would have rushed over and fussed for a good quarter hour over me. (Maybe I could have sat on your lap until I felt better?) Jack, even in a pissy mood, would have been right there with a hand and a wrinkle of concern in that pretty little forehead of his. Krypto, definitely. Cryptic and Stray, of course. Lunatic, Blue, Joe, Pete, Luke, Jake... any of you guys would not have sat there and laughed over the chic falling.
Ok, so maybe you would have. But if you've ever done such a thing, shame on you and don't tell me about it. Let me have my fantasy here. And let me give you boy-types some advice: if you ever see a chic fall, drunk or not, hot or not, (and I was damn hot last night, as Act II will prove) you had better be up off your ass double-time, kind hand outstretched, narry a smile on your lips. Bad things happen to assholes.
Seriously, people go to hell for less.
But, heh heh, I got mine after the intermission. There was one lame pool hall in between but then we went to a piano bar.
You know, dueling pianos? When it's good, it's great. When it's bad... it's awful. It's horribly embarrassing. Actually it's embarrassing anyway, because it's such a chic thing. To be clear, it was not my idea to go in there. PHF was trying to please me, and as there was nothing else to do (I suggested the pool to be nice to him, but he wasn't biting.) And it was only nine-thirty. We sure as hell weren't going home.
We watch for awhile and they're pretty good. Four guys with differing ability: a clear one, two, three, four. It's obvious who is number one and he is brilliant. But this mostly involves numbers two and three. (Let me take a break here for the odd, contemplative, drunken observation: Isn't it funny how someone can be not very cute, but put a piano in front of him and his personality comes through and lo and behold, he's damn cute. Then you see him later up at the bar on break and he's not cute again. Weird.)
Anyway, they're singing, of course. And playing piano.
Sex is on her way (finally!) to getting drunk. PHF is driving and is being fairly responsible, but enjoying the piano bar despite himself. He actually was starting to nod a little to the music at that point (later he would be singing along, but that's not what this is about).
Sex comes up with a request. "Werewolves in London." I've got a thing for that song for a lot of reasons, but it's a ringer for piano bars, of course.
"Waaaaaooooooo Werewolves in London. Waaoooooooooooooooooo."
It's a gimme.
PHF says two bucks, since it's a gimme, but I don't want to be cheap-ass about it. I put three bucks on it - probably the minimum bid - and walk my request up to the piano. I put the money down on the piano and turn to leave.
Number three QUITS playing and comes after me, actually makes it off the stage.
Number two yells at him to come back and save his scamming for his break. The crowd goes crazy. Fortunately I was just drunk enough to not go all red. AND they played my song immediately, ahead of about ten other requests. And a guy in a wheelchair danced to my song. If you read me much you'll know why that's pretty cool. Yeah, you can dance in a chair. He was good too, incredible balance and upper body of course, and way cute. Some chics picked up on him after that.
So, yeah, Amber, I'd say the the sex hair is working out nicely. Of course the fuck-me heels and skimpy halter top didn't hurt either. But the sex hair was done all super straight. It did look pretty good, even if I say so myself.
But I think PHF was right. I think I could have gotten my song played for two bucks.