It all started with you Mitch Fatel:
He's slightly retarded, yet so cute. In fact, he's so funny that I almost pissed myself during that random excursion down to San Jose. Place on top of that the fact that after his show there was a bar with two white girls, two shots of Patron, three bottles of water, one pack of Asian women and one singular Asian woman that briefly played a role in our collective lives and you have one helluva night. During the never-ending drive back to Sacramento, I could only think about how easy I would need to take it on Saturday night.
Quickly fast forward to today. I'm sitting in my bedroom writing this post, while the average American is at work doing constructive things like going to meetings and responding to e-mails. That life is for the birds! Taking Monday off of work is a feast reserved for kings.
Rewind a bit to Saturday morning. I woke up somewhat early because a certain someone was snoring so intensely loud that I could hear it through my bulletproof walls. In my drunken stupor the night before, I also felt that locking my door would help to keep the evil noises out. But I was wrong.
After bidding the the guy who sleeps on my couch quite frequently farewell, I sat back with a nervous anticipation for the night to come. I knew that within moments my two female roommates would be buzzing around the apartment as they set up for our Black and White Extravaganza. Before I knew it, there were girls cutting stars out of construction paper on the ground and there were girls throwing confetti everywhere and there were girls giggling and all sorts of crazy girl shit going on. After running a few errands and flirting with the sandwich girl at Togos, I decided that the best thing I could do at that point in time was to take a nap. So I did...
When I woke up, girls were still everywhere. I was overwhelmed. After moving a few tables and eating a few hot dogs, I knew that I was ready for the night's activities to begin. The Mitch Fatel experience already seemed like such a distant memory. I knew that only massive amounts of alcohol could take me back to the euphoric feeling that Mitch bestowed upon me. So as soon as the first bottle was open, I proceeded to make Pink Flamingos (best girly drink ever) for me and everyone I could convince to drink one. A beer, a blue balls, a few sips of Apple Pie, 2 tabasco shots, 2 fire shots and whatever else later, I was well on my way to having a blast. I felt as free as a bird. Had I been in a bar I would've shouted play Freebird at the top of my lungs. I've never actually seen it happen or done it, but I hear that drunk people do that in bars all the time. But I digress...
So after an incident free pre-party, we finally load up and head over to the club. I'm pretty toasty already, but I do remember the scent of old PF Changs in the backseat of the Mustang. It was unpleasant. Especially because I didn't call shotgun soon enough. I was fearful that no girls would talk to me for the rest of the night.
The heavens smiled upon us when we really did manage to get in for free. In celebration of all of the money I saved, I did what any illogical drunk person would do: I went to the bar to buy a drink. While at the bar I was sidetracked and ended up paying for other people's drinks, too (I would not be too happy about this on Sunday morning). After devouring my first beverage, a rumor began to spread that someone in our group had bought a table. After being quoted $65, he would later find that the bottle service actually cost a whopping $300! Before he received this bad news, he was in a great mood. So I sat down as if I were important and began to drink tons of what was...in essence...free alcohol. Two glasses of Ketel One and OJ later, I felt the urge to dance.
Before the night was up I had managed to give out 2 lap dances and 6 or 7 business cards. Shortly thereafter, While dancing with a tall Asian woman in a leopard dress, I decided that I was in love. As her friend was making an effort to ditch some lame ass, she pulled me over to the hallway that leads up to the restrooms. Here is a loose construction of our conversation.
Me: What's your name?
Her: (Names have been delted to protect the innocent). What's yours?
Me: (I'm deleting my name because I am innocent until proven guilty)
Her: How old are you?
Me: Why is that important?
Her: I'm 27. You look like a baby.
Me: I'm 23. But don't worry I'm mature for my age.
Her: Well I have two kids!
Me: Why are you telling me that?
Her: Because I'm proud of my kids. Most men can't handle that.
Me: (nervous, but keeping my composure) You mean most boys can't handle that.
Her: You're not going to run away?
Me: I don't run that fast in my dress shoes.
Her: (laughter) You're funny.
Me: (changing the subject) You have a beautiful smile.
Her: (more laughter, she's sold)
Her friend: (in a very non-cock blocking fashion) Let's go dance you guys!
Her: Let's go...
Other things were said and done that shall be omitted to protect the innocent and to preserve my ability to run the routine again. But of course, I number closed - thanks Neil Strauss!
Unfortunately, this same mother of two caught a glimpse of me holding hands with another young woman after the club let out. Given her height, I should have known that she would have an impeccable vantage point and be capable of seeing me from anywhere within a 2-mile radius. I sent her a text message. Let's just say that she wasn't happy. If I see her in another club - she might kill me.
My hand holding experiment was a major disaster, too. My wing man and "friend" managed to ditch out on me by hoping in a car that was speeding away and left me in a one-on-two situation. Given that my technique is not nearly as advanced as it would need to be to close two chicks, I walked them home and found that I still had about another mile to go before I would reach my place. Upon arrival I saved a life, stepped on broken glass and climbed into my bed - just as lonely as I could be.
I spent the entire day Sunday trying to piece my life back together. But I also felt a strange sense of SUCCESS. The night before, minus a few hiccups here and there, had gone swimmingly. Some would even say that my night had been a triump; a mini-masterpiece of sorts. If my life had been a movie, pickup artists everywhere would have been yelling : Bravo!
My life would be so much simpler if I wasn't so damn charming, good-looking and such an exquisite dancer (with and without alcohol in my system). I like to stroke my ego often - how about you?
But yes, the long and short of this pretty long post is this: Every weekend should be like this and every work week should start on Tuesday if an employer wants his or her employees to truly find happiness out there on the San Jose and Sacramento nightlife scenes.