Happy Booze Year…

I have been feeling rather social of late…no am sure why. Maybe Stella has recovered her proverbial groove. At any rate, I found myself inexplicably drawn to other people on New Years, which to me usually translates as “more obligatory happiness brought on by calendar and not mood.” I just refuse to let the calendar dictate to me when I should party. But….when in Rome.

I started the night at Emily’s, sucking back Sprite Zero and getting caught up on the sketchiness and drug dealing habits of the wait staff at El Mariachi. What? You mean working in the kitchen doesn’t pay for the rims on the car that’s always parked out front? To save Emily and friends on cab fare (and because I not-so-secretly enjoy trapping people in my car and playing them music), I offered to drop them off at the Guilty Pleasures show. In the spirit of the night, we played a game of 80s Name That Tune. Almost everybody aced “Electric Youth,” but Rockwell’s “Somebody’s Watching Me” proved to difficult for “name the artist” bonus points.

Before going to Nat’s, I decided to swing by Red Door East to say hey to Katy and Lindsey (both of whom I hadn’t seen in forever), only to then remember that I was supposed to have met them at 3 Crow. Not a wasted trip, though, as I ran into the kick-ass former-echo Jane.

Walked down to 3 Crow to find Lindsey, Zack, Katy and Wendy sandwiched between some Vandy people and some hipsters. Honestly, East Nashville, can I go anywhere in you without feeling as though I should have hired a stylist? Or bought a scooter? Or adopted a tiny dog? (East Nashville replies with “bitch, this ain’t Rivergate! pass my PBR!”) Anyway, we had the lovely and talented Amy Lite for a waitress, so she took it pretty well when bourbon (compliments of the Vandy kids, who are good for something after all) got spilled all over the credit card slips. Also ran into Diah’s tiny punk friend who totally didn’t recognize me. Hello? You have Hello Kitty gloves. Shouldn’t there be a secret handshake for that? You is family!

“Evil! Come to the white rap show with me! Please!”

Oh, fine. I was in the mood for an interesting cultural experience, and I’d always held a certain morbid curiosity for Alex’s rap culture. Turns out, it sounds suspiciously like techno.  There was also a weird representation by hipster dudes with gauged ears and sideburns. Those dudes with the scary-skinny girlfriends who wear leggings and flats and have 200-dollar haircuts even though they’re, like, 20. Eventually, Wendy couldn’t take any more and we broke out for the Lipstick Lounge…

where we never actually arrived. Something about trying to make a seriously drunk person walk four blocks didn’t quite work out. Thus, I retired my role as Designated Apologizer (“sorry she bumped into you…she’s just really drunk…”) and took Katy home. Wendy came along for the ride, but her bladder only made it 3/4 of the way. Let’s just say the back of a certain closed Shell station now holds a special, hilarious significance.”Oh my God dude…there are cops everywhere. What if you got arrested? You would totally be Kid Rock.”

Home again home again, doing what is slowly becoming a bizarre compulsion more than a hobby, but it’s like I told Dude Hitting On Me At Rap Show:

“I like to type more than I like to talk. In real life, you only get about 10 seconds before people interrupt you. In the interest of staying within that 10 seconds, I tend to edit, skip words, and become incoherent. The phone is even worse, cause I can’t see the other person inhaling before they talk. Hate the phone.”

This was, perhaps, more than expected to hear when he asked for my number.

**And whatever happened to going to Nat’s? In all the craziness, I missed it. I’m an asshole. I hope you didn’t stay awake to wait on me. I’m an asshole, and I owe you one.

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