Seven Hours Later: Ubersaga Chapter III

The STS pulled into the spot in my driveway normally occupied by my car, which, you’ll recall, I left behind. As we entered my house, I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was in store for me there . . . given that heretofore the night had been going so smoothly. I turned on the light as we walked in and she made a bee-line for the stereo and my music collection.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

“Surprise me,” she answered.

I opened my liquor cabinet and stared at it for a moment. I settled on one of my favorites for the fairer gender: a shot of vodka and a shot of Pama pomegranate liqueur, topped off with tonic water in a rocks glass filled with ice. No garnish. Because I’m lazy that way. I poured myself a glass of Crown Royal, and walked into my living room, where she had put the Cure’s "Disintegration" album on and was busy dancing to "Fascination Street." I sat and watched her dance for most of the song.

I had forgotten he was on the way by the time Frankie showed up with his waitress. The waitress brought a cooler full of Beck’s beer with her. My girl paid no mind to Frankie and his lady friend, but kept on dancing in a sort of preternatural fugue.

“We’re gonna hit the hot-tub,” Frankie announced triumphantly. His waitress said nothing, but it was evident she regarded my lady much as one regards the average cockroach. Frankie found the towels in the linen closet in my hallway, and he and the waitress popped into my guest room, emerging in the towels a couple of minutes later. They went out my back door, leaving me alone with the dancing blonde.

The chick sat to drink her drink, and lit a cigarette as she did so. We sort of talked, but there wasn’t really much to talk about. After drinking about half of her drink, she asked if I had Kahlúa. I said I did, and she asked if I’d mix her a White Russian. I got up and did so, and she changed the CD to Depeche Mode’s "Violator" album. I brought the White Russian back to the couch. Even though I'm in my third decade of life, I never seem to remember the formula for doing this, which I've been using since adolescence, but somehow I made my move, and we started making out. We kissed for a while, and when she came up for air, she spoke:

“Do you have any weed?”

I don’t smoke weed. I have no weed at my house. Maybe I should, for just these sorts of moments. I don’t know. I don’t even know that I would know where to get any weed if I wanted to anymore. And even if I had some, I don’t know that I’d smoke it, even if a hot chick wanted to smoke out with me. I’ve never been a big fan of psychoactives. All in all, I love my booze. It occurred to me that back in October of 2004 I bought a case of whippets as party favors for a bachelor party and I had sort of forgotten about it. Also, my buddy Laz’s ex-girlfriend was Czech, and on one of her trips to Prague, she had brought me back a bottle of absinthe.

“I don’t have any weed, but I do have whippets if you want. . .” Don't think that the juvenile nature of the suggestion was lost on me. I may as well have suggested that that we huff some Liquid Paper out of a paper bag.

“You do???” I dug my cracker out of a junk drawer, and brought the box of whipped-cream chargers over to my coffee table. I filled a balloon full of N2O for her and passed it over. As she fazed out, I did a whippet myself. Then I refilled the balloon for her and she did a second whippet. As she was blowing in and out of the balloon, Frankie walked in and looked at us in what I can only describe as confusion. He said nothing, fished a couple of beers out of the cooler his waitress had brought over, and went back outside. I resumed my make out session, which we punctuated by cigarettes, whippets, and more drinks. That went on for a while.

“Look, we need to establish some boundaries,” she interrupted, “because I don’t usually do this sort of thing.” I love the inevitable disclaimer that every woman seems to give in this situation. I call it the I’m not usually this slutty speech. I let her talk, anticipating her ground rules as if she had read the same guidebook that they must distribute to girls in middle school: in summary, everything short of actual intercourse would be OK, but she wasn’t going to have sexual relations of the Clinton variety with me. I agreed. Eventually, we went through all of the whipped cream chargers.

“Have you ever tried absinthe?” I asked her.

“You have absinthe? Really? I’ve wanted to try it since I read Oscar Wilde.” That comment surprised me. I should note that throughout the night, she’d shown some idiot savant tendencies, like when she referenced Cyrus the Great in a conversation back at Carpe. It sort of fascinated me, given the overwhelming vacuousness of the rest of her conversation. I nodded, got up from the couch, and changed the CD to Massive Attack’s "Mezzanine" album.

I had the bottle of absinthe, but none of the requisite accoutrements. I brought the bottle over, along with a liter bottle of Voss water and a sugar shaker. Czech absinthe tastes like Windex – very chemical like, as opposed to say, Spanish absinthe. You need to cut it with quite a bit of sugar and water to make it palatable. I poured the absinthe over a tablespoon of sugar in a highball glass and lit it on fire. The lights were very dim in the living room and the burning absinthe cast an eerie blue light on the scene. I poured the water into the glass, extinguishing the flame. I thought she’d complain, but the taste didn’t seem to bother the chick as she slammed the absinthe like she would have a shot of tequila. She asked for another, and I looked at her impressed. As I poured her a second glass of absinthe, Frankie and his waitress walked in. They were speechless at the sight of the chargers strewn about my hardwood floor and the bottle of absinthe prominently in the middle of my coffee table. I looked at them and shrugged. They shuffled into the guest room. I looked at the clock on my cable box, and was surprised to see that it was 3:30 a.m. She sipped through her second glass of absinthe, and I finished the last of my Crown Royal. I’d been drinking non-stop for seven hours.

“Let’s go to bed,” I suggested.

Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.

Crap, where has the week gone . . . tomorrow's already Thursday, and I am looking down the barrel of a couple of deadlines. I forgot my iPod at home today and that just sucked . . . what the hell did I do before I had an iPod? This isn't a plug for Apple, by the way, it's an honest question.

And thank you to my ladies in Texas for turning me on to this so that I could rant a little. By and large the cops I've ever dealt with have been straight forward, and I've made it through three decades without a moving violation despite being pulled over at various times for various reasons -- sometimes flagrant (like running right through a red light, or going the wrong way down a one-way street). But there's something about the folks that go into law enforcement, along with the power that the badge and uniform confers that just SCREAMS for accountability. I admit that we need the cops . . . but we also need them to know that if they act like this there will be consequences. So I'll be following this story closely now.

In the mean time, let's take a moment to review what we should have learned in civics class, but if you were like me you didn't:

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

Razorblade ramblings

In my life I've had five regular barbers. I once heard that the average guy has had fewer barbers in his life than he has had girlfriends. I suspect somebody just made that up, and I don't care enough to research it, but at least in my case I know it to be true. My current barber is an angry Russian Jew. One plus to having a Jewish barber is that the guy's open on Sundays, which is great because it's most convenient for me. As an aside, I don't trust barbers trained in America. Only one of my regular barbers -- my first -- has been American born, and I wore a ball cap for much of that era. By and large, I don't want an American with a straight razor anywhere near my throat.

Today, I opted for a hot-towel shave in addition to my typical haircut. I do that about twice a year or so. It's expensive and time consuming, but when done right, it's one of the most relaxing and fulfilling things a man can do for himself.

Rope

I don't consider myself to be a deviant in many ways. But I couldn't help but wonder how others perceive me when one day the Kaiser called me while I was in the middle of a beer at the Pub. I stepped outside to have the conversation as I couldn't hear him clearly over the barroom din.

"Hey puto, Marie and I were wondering what sort of lube you recommend." (Marie is his long-term girlfriend.)

"Excuse me?" I replied.

"You know, personal lubricant . . . like KY."

"Ohhh . . . luuuube," I replied, "wait -- what the hell am I -- who made me the lube consultant???"

"Well, you always seem to know about these things."

And the sad thing is, I actually had an opinion to share with the guy. I told him what I thought: that KY was the old trusty, Astroglide was more hype than what it's worth and I wouldn't spend my money on it, though it would do, and if they were at a place with a selection, he and Marie would probably really like Wet, which was not only better than the other two I mentioned, but also comes in a variety of fruit flavors. Also, if he want to the right shop, they would have sample sizes of different types and they should probably try out a few before settling on one particular brand.

This isn't the first time that somebody's called me up with questions of this sort -- not just lube, but "deviant" sex questions. So there I was. The kink consultant for my friends. And I had to ask myself how I came to be that guy . . . and I think it came from the time that my friends were making fun of one of our buddies because he had a pair of fuzzy handcuffs at his place. And I said: "Fuzzy handcuffs are for posers. Real men know how to tie knots." And that pretty much cast me into the role of libertine in the eyes of all. And I'm serious; I can tie you a bowline, a prusik, or a reef knot with one hand in pitch blackness. I kind of kick ass that way.

The Kaiser thanked me and hung up the phone, and I walked back into the Pub. "Who was that?" Frankie asked.

"The Kaiser. He and Marie are shopping for lube."

"For him or for her?"

"I have no idea. I didn't want to ask. . . ."

Microcosm

Today's Wikipedia featured picture: two flower chafers fucking on a carrot flower head. If you

stop to think about it, life's really about two things at the very core: eating and fucking. Those two fundamental urges drive all life from these insects to the Nobel Laurates. I can't help but wonder how the concept of "romance" applies to the little freaks above. I mean, as humans, we have emotions and we find the need to explain all the things that drive us, but ultimately, if our belly is full and we have a little "piece" and quiet, we tend to be happy.

A little more jabbing into the repository of all human knowledge yields the photo to the right. What's the life expectancy on these guys? Two days? Maybe a week? In that time, they eat, they fuck, and they leave behind offspring to do it all over again. They don't grind away at a job, or stress about their mortgage. Life is fleeting . . . don't deny your most base instincts . . . now go out there and make it happen!

Priorities

I just spent $70.24 on booze at Costco. Sometimes I reflect on how much money I could save if I cut back on vice. Then I realize that if I did, I would be incredibly bored.

Death Takes a Holiday: Ubersaga Chapter II

Text message to Frankie, 11:54 p.m: “Ur my ride tomorrow morning”

The Cadillac STS shot out of the Kyoto parking lot and onto the street like the proverbial bat out of hell. It then did an abrupt U-turn in flagrant disregard of the No U-Turn sign prominently situated on the median across from the mall and headed westward well in excess of any posted speed limit. It occurred to me that nobody in the car was sober enough to be driving legally. A part of me wanted to adjure this chick to slow down, but aside from her speeding, the car was handling pretty well. We were still talking about music when out of nowhere, the car careened to a screeching halt into a parking lot.

“I need my music.” She said, as she fished out a cartridge for a 6-Disc CD changer from somewhere, and got out of the car to load it into the changer in the trunk.

Text message to Frankie, 11:59 p.m.: “I am living 40 year old virgin”

As abruptly as we had pulled over, we were off again, at least 20 miles-per-hour over the speed limit. "If You Leave" by Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark blared out over the stereo. As she sang along with the song, she stuck both her hands out the moon-roof and began swaying back and forth as she steered the car with her knees. We were only about halfway to my place at that point, but I honestly don’t think she was watching the road as she did this. It was, quite frankly, terrifying. She tore through a yellow light as if it were not there at all.

Text message to Frankie, 12:04 a.m.: “I may die soon.”

Text message from Frankie, 12:07 a.m.: “hang in there”

Hipster Olympics

Somewhere I took a turn on the road of life . . .

. . . that led me away from normalcy and into the surreal. Sometimes I look back and try to find that place.

Seize the Night: Ubersaga Chapter I

The bar was just across the street from the mall, so we walked there after dinner. 8:30 is admittedly a little early, but we were going to run the same game as we did at the Pub . . . and that required a place to sit. The place wasn’t as dead as we had expected, but we were able to score a table – with four lounger-type leather chairs. The waitress was hot on the spot – and we were ready with our drink orders. I went with a greyhound (Ketel One), and Frankie ordered a Maker’s Mark and soda. Within a half-hour, the bar was full. Clearly a crowd making this the first stop for the evening. The ladies were definitely in a different league from the typical bar-fly ladies we had become accustomed to. Would our game even work on them? That remained to be seen.

Now I should be clear – I’m a pretty average looking guy – certainly no Clark Gable, or anything. Frankie is too. If we have any strength, it’s in the delivery, but we need to step up to even get a shot at that. We saw two women eyeing our spare chairs. As they approached, Frankie and I made eye-contact with each other, as the ladies were spying the chairs and neither of us. The leader of the two walked up, and put her hand on one of the spare chairs.

“Do you mind if we take these chairs?” Bingo – they were out for the chairs, and as it turned out, there with a few other women.

“Actually, we’re expecting people,” I said. Which was true, in a sense. . . . She turned her nose up at me in disgust. As she walked away, Frankie and I looked at each other again. “Let the bitch stand,” I told him. He cracked up.

We noticed a hot, tall blonde standing by the bar. Frankie rated her a 9.5, but I thought she was more of a 9. She stood about 5’10”, but was wearing heels, which took her well over 6’. She was a definite stunner. She walked away from the bar and toward the back of the place. That’s the type of chick this place drew – they were all cut from the same cloth – and it was a cloth that neither of us had ever had any experience tailoring.

I was well into my second greyhound, when I looked up at an amazon towering over our table. It was the aforementioned 9.

“Is anybody sitting here?”

“We’re actually saving it for you.” I’ve always been comfortable delivering even the lamest of openings. “I’m Jack.”

An unsolved mystery remains why She decided sit with me and Frankie. Aside from being tired of standing, that is . . . My immediate gut thought was that she was a “working girl” and we were easy marks, but that wasn’t the case at all. She had just bought a new pair of shoes at the Louis Vuitton store in the mall, and had asked the sales guy where she could go wearing them. He suggested Carpe, and she had stopped by. We talked a bit with her, and she excused herself to have a smoke. SCORE! Smoking is one of my strengths – it’s a captive audience for seven minutes – and I can always show how awesome I am over a cigarette. We left Frankie to guard the table, and we went outside to pollute our lungs. Pleasant conversation. Her ex-husband had her daughter that night, and she had stopped by Carpe Noctem en route, to flirt with dudes before she went over to his place to “fuck.” That’s what she liked to do, she said – as he was “safe,” but she liked the “scene,” and flirting. We came back in and talked with Frankie. She ordered another drink – and so did we, and we smoked again like 20 minutes later. Drink, smoke, drink. Around 10:30, she suggested that we go somewhere with a patio bar, so that we could drink and smoke at the same time. I suggested the sushi bar across the street, Kyoto Grill, because I knew they’d be starting their reverse happy hour at 11:00. Frankie called his waitress, and told her to meet us there. The 9 asked for our tab, and put down a credit card – her ex’s credit card – which she explained she was to use for “food.” We didn’t argue as she paid for our drinks.

Getting to Kyoto would have been as easy as walking across the street, but this chick insisted on driving. She had left her car – a Cadillac STS – with the valet, and when he brought it around, Frankie and I got in, with me riding shotgun . She tore out of the parking lot and barreled across the street like Mario Andretti, blowing through a stop sign on the way. When we pointed that out, she explained that “it’s private property,” so she didn’t have to obey the sign. She pulled up to the valet at Kyoto about as abruptly as she had departed the last valet, and gave him $20 to park her car up front. Frankie and I looked at each other in confusion.

The bar was crowded and there were no empty tables on the patio. There as one large eight-top with a pair of old ugly people sitting at it. Ugly as they were, they were making out like 14 year-olds. We approached them and asked if we could sit with them. They agreed, and pretty much ignored us. Frankie’s waitress showed up, and was more confused than either or us, as she was sober and had no idea what we had been up to thus far. The server came by and we ordered a bunch of happy-hour sushi – rolls mostly – and another round of drinks.

We ate and talked some more, though I was pretty drunk, so the conversation couldn’t have been very good. At one point, Frankie’s waitress leaned over at me and said “she’s real pretty, but a little crazy . . .” about my date. I had to agree, though the irony of Frankie’s waitress saying it was not lost on me.

Somehow, we ended up talking about music. Somehow, we ended up talking about the Smiths.

“Do you have any Smiths at your place?” She asked.

“Yeah. Smiths, Cure, Depeche Mode . . .” I answered.

“Do you have anything to drink at your place?” She asked.

“Well yeah, whatever you want, pretty much . . . .”

“We should get out of here, go back to your place, drink and listen to music.”

I looked over at Frankie and his waitress. “What do you guys think?” I asked them. They were game. I explained where I lived to the chick, as we left. Then it occurred to me that I lived about 20 minutes away, and she likely wouldn’t find my place, so I made an executive decision: “I’ll ride with you, and Frankie will give me a ride back to my car tomorrow.”