In Italy, they say that the thing you do on New Year’s Eve is indicative of what you’ll be doing for the rest of the year. If that’s true, I will be eating tamales, hanging out with lesbians, trying not to get set on fire and getting Pearl to be my street cred at a hip-hop club. None of that sounds particularly out of the question.
My sister came to town to meet up with some of her Indiana friends and barhop around lower Broad. Before I would drop the car load of them off at said location (I considered it, but does ANYONE really want me on lower Broad on NYE? I didn’t think so), we traded stories in a room at the Holiday Inn Express. Nashville Dave came out before heading off to a “kid-friendly” NYE event (“it pretty much just means that we don’t swing until AFTER the kids go to bed…”) and I pondered the lack of MTV on the hotel tv.
Heading out to dinner, I thought I spied a chick in the lobby stealing my idea for randomly attaching bump-Its to my head, but her stumble showed that she was trashed rather than making an ironic statement about the stupidity of Bump-Its. Also in the lobby were a group of women who looked like the bastard children of Jersey Shore and Wal-Mart: short, tight dresses bedazzles with sequins, more makeup than a Mary Kay convention, and a friend wearing a magenta velour track suit carrying a giant plastic bag as if it were a baby. Hell, maybe it WAS a baby. “It’s the only way it’ll stop cryin’, y’all!”
“Where were they FROM?”
“Alabama. Kentucky. Rivergate, if they have guns.”
Coming back from dinner, we would see one of the women drunkenly stumble and fall into a gutter. “Hey, welcome home!” said sis in the car as I dug around in my purse to fish out my video camera before the light turned green. (To no avail. Somebody please buy me a Flip, for God’s sake.)
After dinner at the US Border Cantina, I dropped them off at lower Broad and crossed back over the river to Wendy’s house.
“What do you want to do?”
“Anything but a bar.”
“There’s a lesbian party at The Purple House.”
“DUDE! I think someone I know from Twitter might be there, and I love a lesbian party. Let’s do it.”
I felt like a total liar for being at said party but not being gay, but Wendy knew a lot of people there (“if you play softball long enough, you meet everybody”) so I don’t think anybody thought I was going to steal stuff. Honestly, who has a house that nice and lets total strangers roam around in it? Trusting people?
Before the party was over, Wendy would be wearing 4 name tags (including “Hello, I’ve had a lot of whiskey”) and we both would have been nearly set on fire by a roman candle. I didn’t get to meet the Twitter person, as he/she had either already left or was at some other house known as The Purple House.
Eventually, Wendy and I found ourselves back at her house dancing around the kitchen to The Black Keys, Aretha Franklin, and Akon. Wendy has a thing for Akon. Don’t ask. By the time Nat and Pearl came by, Wendy and I greeted them with “Pearl, we want to go to Club Infinity some time.”
“What’s Club Infinity?”
“That sketchy hip-hop bar on Main Street.”
“So you need me to be your street cred?”
“Yeah…but you have to audition. We’re not sure you can be scary enough to be our street cred.”
This prompted Pearl to practice yelling, “I will CUT YOU!” After three or four tries, we figured she’d have to do. “Just make sure you do the ‘crazy eyes’ thing. That really sells it.”
“Come on, you Jungle Fever bitches.”
“Nah, dude…I just want to dance to some Lil Wayne.”
“Whatever. Jungle Fever.”
This would be the point where I had to explain to Nat what Jungle Fever is. Nat lived in Mexico a good part of his life, so his pop culture knowledge can be a bit spotty. This would also be why Nat didn’t understand when I answered Wendy’s door upon Nat and Pearl’s arrival with “Are you shootin out the walls of heartache? Are you The Warrior?”
Despite it being 2:30 by that time, we figured we’d go put Pearl to the test and drove down to Club Infinity. She did an excellent job of getting us past the questionably-toothed doormen for free, despite the doormen not approving of my large purse and giant-spiked bracelet. We didn’t fare so well with the large, angry woman just inside the door.
“The bar’s CLOSED!” She yelled over the strains of “Too Much Booty In The Pants.”
“But they said…”
“The bar’s CLOSED!”
Fine. We’re not going to make a scene with you, Toll Troll. When venturing into a scene that’s not your own, there are three rules:
1. Don’t piss off the regulars.
2. If you have boobs, most dudes will welcome you.
3. The women may not be so welcoming.
Wendy, Nat and Pearl went to seek booze elsewhere, and I went home to watch a Tivoed episode of Jersey Shore. As for Club Infinity, we will meet again.