May 2nd, 2011 | Author: trancejen
I don’t know if you guys heard this, as it’s kind of a closely guarded secret, but Osama Bin Laden is dead.
Heh.
In other, perhaps less newsworthy news, I had a seizure this morning whilst calling in a prescription to Walgreens. During this time I fell and somehow got the phone cord (yes, we still have a corded phone in the kitchen because it’s still 19-fucking-78 in this house) wrapped around my neck. I woke up some twenty minutes later to find an extremely frazzled mother who had apparently rescued me from the brink of choking to death.
The fun, it never ends!
Speaking of fun, Saturday night I went out with a few friends from high school to a dive bar in a town about a half an hour away to hear a local band.
I have always said that I attract only the strangest types of folks. The ones I meet through mutual attraction aren’t half bad, but the ones that actively seek me out in bars or clubs generally represent the dregs of society.
Why this is, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the nose ring. Maybe it’s the giant lighted neon sign on my forehead that reads “I *heart* miscreants”. Maybe I’m just funny looking.
Whatever the reason, I am a total freak magnet, and Saturday night brought even more weirdos to the table.
While sitting and watching the band and slugging down a couple a few a copious amount of Miller Lites, I had the heebie-jeebies, that creepy feeling one gets when one is being watched. I looked around and saw that at an adjacent table, there was a dude of about fifty or so sitting and boring a hole through my forehead with his eyes. I quickly looked away and continued watching the band.
The heebie-jeebies continued, and I looked again. Stary McStarerson continued. I gave him a moderately dirty look and started talking to one of my friends.
“Do you see that dude?”
“Yeah, he’s been staring at us all night.”
“He’s creepy.”
“Totally.”
Hours went by and he sat, unmoving, staring. Creepy. Weird.
I got drunk, which is never a good thing. I looked at my friend intently and scowled.
“I’m going to kick that guy in the neck if he continues to stare.”
“Heheheh.”
“I’m not kidding. Right in the neck.”
“Now might be a good time for you to ease up on the beer.”
I didn’t make good on my promise, thankfully, and soon forgot about Creepy Starey Dude, and got lost in animated drunken conversation with friends, as well as some choice drunk texting.
I should have a Breathalyzer on my phone. Seriously. I am a horrible drunk texter. My friends will attest to the fact that there have been many Saturday nights that I have sent “What are you doing??” or “HEEEY, what’s UP?” at four AM.
It’s a bad, bad habit.
Anyway, I was chatting and typing away, when a brassy blond woman in her fifties with a Very Bad Perm came up to me and asked me to dance. I did what I usually do, which is flap my arms wildly in the universal sign for “Oh, no, I don’t dance” and politely refuse, and my friend’s 21-year-old cousin C., who must have been tanked beyond all reason, took the bait and went and danced with her.
The woman waved at me from the dance floor several times to come and dance, and each time I flapped. No, sorry. Not me! I don’t dance! I am rhythmically challenged! I have a dead left foot! I am a Baptist!
(I do dance, and quite well, but not with strange women, unless I’ve had a lot of tequila.)
C. returned from the dance floor with news. “Heh. Why didn’t you dance? Is it because of her teeth?”
“What about her teeth?” I said.
My friend A. looked at me quizzically. “She has no teeth.”
“NO TEETH?” I goggled.
“No teeth. None.”
I looked her way again, noticed the somewhat sunken in face, and it certainly did appear that she had no teeth. I wasn’t sure how I’d missed it the first time around.
She caught me looking and returned to our table. “Hi, let’s dance.”
I politely refused again, and watched as C. punk rocked her way to the floor with my toothless would-be suitor.
Good Lord.
These are the people who are interested in me, dear friends. These are the people who find me attractive.
I am losing hope.
We went to White Castle after leaving the bar, and I forgot yet again that as much as I love White Castle when drunk, White Castle is vile and evil and stays with a person for days on end, and the horrible gastrointestinal aftereffects of White Castle are just not worth a little two-inch square, one-millimeter thick burger. Or three.
People blame White Castle Syndrome on the onions. It’s not the onions. They pour laxatives and pure hydrochloric acid into those fucking things.
In still other news, I actually got all of my Mother’s Day shopping done early and well this year, and I think my mother is going to be thrilled to the gills. I’m excited.
Happy Monday. Don’t forget your mama this week.
Perhaps the caliber of suitors you attract is more attributable to the kinds of establishments you elect to visit? While they can be fun, dive bars in near-rural Midwestopia tend not to be stocked with Brad Pitt look-alikes with PHDs. And then a 6-foot looker walks in, competing against 50-year-olds with no teeth…
Just sayin’.
“The ones I meet through mutual attraction aren’t half bad, but the ones that actively seek me out in bars or clubs generally represent the dregs of society.”
You said it, Sister. Ugh. But, as a dive bar fan, I think Kevin has a very good point. Even so, I often had the same experience in better establishments.
I’ve had the same experiences no matter where I go, unfortunately. Dive bars to downtown hot spots. The weirdos are often better looking, but they’re generally weirder on the inside, which may be infinitely worse. I don’t know if anyone remembers when I wrote about the guy who wanted me to use him as an ashtray? LORD.
You are right, though, Kevin, (although not about the looker part, I don’t really consider myself as such) dive bars aren’t really the place to pick someone up, but I’m really not there for that specific purpose… Meeting a guy while I’m drunk (or while we’re both drunk) is just a disaster waiting to happen…
Ha! I totally remember when that guy wanted you to use him as an ashtray. It doesn’t get much weirder than that.
So what happened with Starey Mc Starersons? Did he just keep starting or did he make a move?
And, for the record I love me sone White Castle even though it causes dragon breath and GI distress. Nothin’ better than sliders and spikes.
He just kept staring! All night long. It was the weirdest thing. Good thing he didn’t make a move, or I probably would have kicked him in the neck.
White Castle is the best drunk food ever. Fries and chocolate shakes….
there is a spindly, 70 year-old toothless man, (actually, he has one tooth front-and-centered on his lower gum,) who practically lives at my favorite dive bar in west hollywood. normally, he is in full cowboy-geddup, and we all know him affectionately as “cowboy,” but he shows up in fabulous toothless drag for special occasions. my god, jen, he would ADORE you!
That’s my kinda guy!
I have seen you dance ONE TIME I think in our entire esteemed almost-a-decade of knowing each other in real life. ONE TIME. And that was only after a night of debauchery involving the half and half night club/barrio followed by the maze of gay bars and the cracked out drag queen version of Whitney Houston. And even then, it took Joy Division and the Femmes to get you to dance. Wait, I think I just answered your question about why you attract such weirdos… look at where we were hanging out that night.
You lie!! I have danced at the Bad Bar EVERY TIME. And I have danced at the gay bar, too!!! Not for long, but I have danced!! Usually I am wearing shoes that are not conducive to dancing, but I swear to Dog I have danced!
Remember when I took my shoes off at the Bad Bar this past ‘con and danced in my stocking feet on that nasty floor?? Give a girl some credit, now!
I love how optimistic you always are about wearing your hooker shoes all night only to end up san shoes in questionable places. Love your dedication. And yes, you did dance in the Bad Bar this ‘con.
You can’t say I don’t try.
It’s tough to get dancing done when my wife is damn determined to pull your top down.
HAAAAAAAAA