Hey baby, ya wanna little drinky-poo?
It’s a Friday night in DC and I’m in full effect. With my friends backing me up, I’ve chatted two women to the point of slipping ’em my card. Then I fondled the chest hair of someone’s boyfriend & even charmed a table of lesbians. Nice work four or maybe five vodka tonics into the night.
And I’ll not stop here. No, we’ll take the party from Trio to the Big Hunt, where I’ll sip a beer as I get shot down by yet another beauty. Later, with all that rejection swirling in my head and all the liquor swirling in my belly, I’ll head home to perform my post-party ritual: midnight cooking.
It’s not really midnight when I do it, and it’s a stretch to call it cooking, but I throw together some interesting snacks before I pass out. Everything from greasy egg sandwiches to funky beans, cheese, and egg concoctions that I’m not about to share with you.
None of this would be all that interesting if it were not replicated every night this week. Yes, it was five days of drinking in a row. Heavy drinking if you ask my friends who usually can manage only one night of my alcoholic adventures per week. Drinking that I don’t usually do, but this was a special week required by the laws of Bacchus.
This was the first week of real spring weather here in DC and the bars opened their patios for the first time since October. We are free of dark smoky rooms filled with sweaters and wool. We are free to see and be scene by the street scene.
If you are of the patio persuasion you’ll defiantly see me. Well you’ll hear me first, as I am not shy or quiet, and then I’ll swoop in and do my Wayan Vota Road Show. A full three to five minutes of me yapping nonstop, spreading cheer and fear all around.
So be on the lookout, and if I do slip you my card, please call, even if only to laugh.