When ya gonna ring it? When ya gonna ring it? PART 2
For the second installment i shall begin with what i believe was wednesday night.
My associate calls me and informs me that we are destined to journey forth to Firebelly. I love Firebelly but whenever i am there there are always strange happenings in the midst. There is a reason that you have to walk downstairs when you enter Firebelly and that reason is the fact that Firebelly is just a little closer to Hell than your average bar. We arrive at Firebelly and my associate orders his food. It is then my turn to order and i, being in an altered state of reality due to heavy drinking and no sleep during the week, decide to throw my taste-buds a curveball and arbitrarily point to an item on the menu. Even a word as vague as "item" is still a little too specific for the culinary cocktail of various shapes, colors, and textures that i was about to consume. After a minute or so of careful scrutinization i deemed it edible and promptly inhaled it in the same manner a small child takes medicine; one fell swipe, no breathing. I remember then looking at the menu and reading the description of what i had just eaten "You'll never see anything like this again". This is an empty promise because Firebelly has no jurisdiction over my nightmares.
My associate then pointed out that the once manageable group of middle-aged drunkards behind us was growing. They appeared to be reproducing at an exponential rate. It occured to me that it could be a side effect of the alcohol. That perhaps when these creatures came into contact with whiskey it caused the same kind of reaction that Mogwai have to water. I glanced about the area in search of mucus pods but none were found. A few minutes later we were surrounded by the foul beings. Throwing back vodka shots trying desperately to give the voices in their heads that say "You can still have fun. You have nothing to regret. You didnt leave the stove on." the upper hand in the schizoidial war that was so obviously ebbing and flowing back and forth behind eyes that are more glazed than a Krispy Kreme uniform at quitting time. I felt like fresh meat hanging in a butchers window. I thought at this point that this night will not end before i am hit on by a middle-aged recent divorcee. Reality has a twisted sense of humor and constantly punishes me for speculating about future events.
At one point a woman who bears a striking resemblance to the wife from The Cosbys walks into our area. She takes a seat next to my colleague and initiates drunken conversation. He informs her of the similarity he finds between her and Claire Huckstable and she says, mildly offended, that she has heard that before. My associate informs here that he meant no offense by that statement and that it was actually a compliment because Felicia Rishad is a very classy woman. Five minutes and a proposition involving breast milk later i am staring at Claire Huckstable as she purges behind a wall just past Brandon who is blissfully bobbing his head back and forth while singing "Im thinkin' about my doorbell. When ya gonna ring it? When ya gonna ring it?".
During this entire ordeal there is a very drunk, very old man who has made himself at home directly across the table from me. The whole time that the matriarch of the Cosby family was trying to seduce my associate this old man (came rolling home) was staring with the abstract perversity that only an old man can conjure up. He had no upper teeth which caused a peculiar phenomenon; when he smiled (which he did often) there was nothing there to stop it so his mouth would just continue on its upward path until it encountered his nose. Eventually Claire left, as did my colleague momentarily leaving me with Shanna and this old prospector who promptly offered Shanna his wallet. Thats right, not some money, his entire wallet. And told her to go buy herself a drink. Shanna obliges leaving me alone with this all-to-happy elderly gentleman who begins yelling incoherent things about Vietnam to me from across the table. Between the music and the surrounding crowd i could only pick out certain words in what he was trying to convey to me, although i am not entirely sure that it would have made sense anyway and i regard myself as lucky for not hearing most of it, so i began to try to humor him by simply nodding and giving as much of a sincere chuckle as possible at the end of each sentence. This seems to work as he continues to smile that metaphysically big smile and tell me stories that in my mind revolved around bath-tubs and epsom salt. Then he finishes one sentence in particular to which i give my usual nod and smile but this time it seems to anger him. So in an attempt to appease him (i did not want him to be mad because given the worlds current population there is about a 1 in 7billion chance that this man is the Hulk) i begin frowning and shaking my head with great enthusiasm. At this point my associate returns and asks me to come play pool even though there are no open pool tables.
We then trek down to the market downtown to buy Brandon some cigarettes. The cashier looked like a thought that had been rejected by Andy Warhols mind.
On the way back to the bar we walked slowly hoping that, much like a bad odor, the high concentration of 40 somethings had diffused into the surrounding area. While crossing Market street we make it to the median and stand there while a stereotypical ditsy-looking blonde makes a U-turn around us. She had her head out the window and a look of saddened confusion on her face. My guess was that half-way through the trun she contemplated the fact that she was making a U-turn but SHE was doing it which to her would make it an I-turn and her brain started to hurt.
The next night we went to the Juggling Gypsy where i decided that i was only going to drink one beer. The weeks debacheries had caught up to me and certain parts of my body were on strike. This was not to happen though because of all the free beer that i inherited when people had to leave suddenly. At some point i began playing guitar and this thirty-something hippie woman approached me, complimented me and began to tell about how she used to play guitar but she could never do a barr chord because she had tiny hands. As if i wouldnt believe her had she just left me with this verbal statement she held up her hand and said "See your hand is a lot bigger than mine. Go ahead, put your hand there. Put your hand there. PUT YOUR HAND THERE." I think i got hand-raped. The rest of the night was a very relaxing blend of music and alcohol. I did however see a drunken teddy-bear.
I love you all.
My associate calls me and informs me that we are destined to journey forth to Firebelly. I love Firebelly but whenever i am there there are always strange happenings in the midst. There is a reason that you have to walk downstairs when you enter Firebelly and that reason is the fact that Firebelly is just a little closer to Hell than your average bar. We arrive at Firebelly and my associate orders his food. It is then my turn to order and i, being in an altered state of reality due to heavy drinking and no sleep during the week, decide to throw my taste-buds a curveball and arbitrarily point to an item on the menu. Even a word as vague as "item" is still a little too specific for the culinary cocktail of various shapes, colors, and textures that i was about to consume. After a minute or so of careful scrutinization i deemed it edible and promptly inhaled it in the same manner a small child takes medicine; one fell swipe, no breathing. I remember then looking at the menu and reading the description of what i had just eaten "You'll never see anything like this again". This is an empty promise because Firebelly has no jurisdiction over my nightmares.
My associate then pointed out that the once manageable group of middle-aged drunkards behind us was growing. They appeared to be reproducing at an exponential rate. It occured to me that it could be a side effect of the alcohol. That perhaps when these creatures came into contact with whiskey it caused the same kind of reaction that Mogwai have to water. I glanced about the area in search of mucus pods but none were found. A few minutes later we were surrounded by the foul beings. Throwing back vodka shots trying desperately to give the voices in their heads that say "You can still have fun. You have nothing to regret. You didnt leave the stove on." the upper hand in the schizoidial war that was so obviously ebbing and flowing back and forth behind eyes that are more glazed than a Krispy Kreme uniform at quitting time. I felt like fresh meat hanging in a butchers window. I thought at this point that this night will not end before i am hit on by a middle-aged recent divorcee. Reality has a twisted sense of humor and constantly punishes me for speculating about future events.
At one point a woman who bears a striking resemblance to the wife from The Cosbys walks into our area. She takes a seat next to my colleague and initiates drunken conversation. He informs her of the similarity he finds between her and Claire Huckstable and she says, mildly offended, that she has heard that before. My associate informs here that he meant no offense by that statement and that it was actually a compliment because Felicia Rishad is a very classy woman. Five minutes and a proposition involving breast milk later i am staring at Claire Huckstable as she purges behind a wall just past Brandon who is blissfully bobbing his head back and forth while singing "Im thinkin' about my doorbell. When ya gonna ring it? When ya gonna ring it?".
During this entire ordeal there is a very drunk, very old man who has made himself at home directly across the table from me. The whole time that the matriarch of the Cosby family was trying to seduce my associate this old man (came rolling home) was staring with the abstract perversity that only an old man can conjure up. He had no upper teeth which caused a peculiar phenomenon; when he smiled (which he did often) there was nothing there to stop it so his mouth would just continue on its upward path until it encountered his nose. Eventually Claire left, as did my colleague momentarily leaving me with Shanna and this old prospector who promptly offered Shanna his wallet. Thats right, not some money, his entire wallet. And told her to go buy herself a drink. Shanna obliges leaving me alone with this all-to-happy elderly gentleman who begins yelling incoherent things about Vietnam to me from across the table. Between the music and the surrounding crowd i could only pick out certain words in what he was trying to convey to me, although i am not entirely sure that it would have made sense anyway and i regard myself as lucky for not hearing most of it, so i began to try to humor him by simply nodding and giving as much of a sincere chuckle as possible at the end of each sentence. This seems to work as he continues to smile that metaphysically big smile and tell me stories that in my mind revolved around bath-tubs and epsom salt. Then he finishes one sentence in particular to which i give my usual nod and smile but this time it seems to anger him. So in an attempt to appease him (i did not want him to be mad because given the worlds current population there is about a 1 in 7billion chance that this man is the Hulk) i begin frowning and shaking my head with great enthusiasm. At this point my associate returns and asks me to come play pool even though there are no open pool tables.
We then trek down to the market downtown to buy Brandon some cigarettes. The cashier looked like a thought that had been rejected by Andy Warhols mind.
On the way back to the bar we walked slowly hoping that, much like a bad odor, the high concentration of 40 somethings had diffused into the surrounding area. While crossing Market street we make it to the median and stand there while a stereotypical ditsy-looking blonde makes a U-turn around us. She had her head out the window and a look of saddened confusion on her face. My guess was that half-way through the trun she contemplated the fact that she was making a U-turn but SHE was doing it which to her would make it an I-turn and her brain started to hurt.
The next night we went to the Juggling Gypsy where i decided that i was only going to drink one beer. The weeks debacheries had caught up to me and certain parts of my body were on strike. This was not to happen though because of all the free beer that i inherited when people had to leave suddenly. At some point i began playing guitar and this thirty-something hippie woman approached me, complimented me and began to tell about how she used to play guitar but she could never do a barr chord because she had tiny hands. As if i wouldnt believe her had she just left me with this verbal statement she held up her hand and said "See your hand is a lot bigger than mine. Go ahead, put your hand there. Put your hand there. PUT YOUR HAND THERE." I think i got hand-raped. The rest of the night was a very relaxing blend of music and alcohol. I did however see a drunken teddy-bear.
I love you all.
posted by Seth Parham at 12:37 PM
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