I get drunk, and I send drunk rambly emails at 3am. At least this one is in English.
(Yes, below is the exact text I sent. When drunk, I try my best to write sober. Except for the rambly bit.)
So, poor Jen. She was sad because she couldn’t find me anyone to talk to at James’ Beach – a place, where I’ve repeatedly tried convincing her, is a place where, somehow, I, in my most passive of states, have still somehow met people.
I don’t know why that is. How is it that there, I somehow meet the most interesting characters worthy of a soap opera? I’m still not sure, especially as I take special caution never to talk to any members of the opposite sex first. Ah, the passivity of it all.
By the way, when I got there tonight, the bartender made eye contact with me, and after doing so, held up a bottle of Mandarin, practically saluting me.
It doesn’t make me an alcoholic, does it, when the bartender greets you with your drink? No! After all, I know the CAGE questions, and I never answer "yes" to any of them.
As an aside, curiously, in the many number of times I’ve been there, I’ve never recognized anyone in the crowd. Or maybe I’ve been too drunk to recognize repeat members of the crowd. That’s a very real possibility. Did I tell you about the Dutch guy? Oh, that was a weirdo, exemplary of the other guys I’ve met there. But no New Zealanders tonight. Thank god, I couldn’t have handled any more Incredible Hulk hands bruising me.
Anyways, you’ll be exceedingly sad to note – or perhaps happy, because you didn’t have to deal with being my wingwoman yet another time – that in the penultimate moment before our leaving the bar, a guy came up to us (he had talked to us previously, at which point I had discovered he lived in Ventura and was from Maine and then he left and told us to join him and his friends at a table, which of course we didn’t do, because – well, obviously. As soon as he left after telling me to do so, I quite instantly forgot. Such is the efficacy of my short-term memory), and asked, ever so cleverly, “So, do you girls smoke ganja?”
I mean, really. Have you taken a good look at me? Does it look like I smoke pot? Don’t I cultivate the stuck-up persona enough? I mean, I try ever so hard at it.
(And this is why I get strange 70-yo men hitting on me outside shows at UCLA, telling me that I look like a real lady. Rah!)
Anyways. Yes, ganja. I have to tell you, as I told him, to be quite frank, that pot never did it for me. I tried it multiple times in college – are you kidding me? An altered state of consciousness without any calories from booze? I’d have been a faithful devotee in a heartbeat – had it worked for me. But it never did, and it sucked. To this day, I still am quite peeved about it all. It’s not fair that I don’t get to join in.
To get to the point. Aforementioned guy. Upon finding out that, that hey, I didn’t like pot? Well, neither did he, but he had a big bed in a hotel he was renting with his friend. In my stupidity (and 6 drinks in), I didn’t ask him which hotel. I hate to be shallow, but had it been Shutters on the Beach – well, I might have been more amenable than were it a hostel down the road. Thankfully, Jen was already getting the car from the valet, so I only had to beg my leave because hey! My friend was going to leave, and thankyousoverymuch, but really, I don’t need you to drive me back to your hotel nor to pay for my cab ride in the morning. Really, I promise.
But he was tall, blond, and dumb – very often, the way I like them. I still haven’t figured out what it is, this tallblonddumb thing. Maybe I am bettering the propagation of our species, since I’m the opposite of that, and you know, genetic mixing is generally good. But anyways. So I made out with him a bit at the bar – which usually, I don’t indulge in, contrary to many people’s beliefs – and gave him my number (jeesums, I might have to change my number soon, who knows who in this Southern California region has it), and he said he’d call after a few joints.
Super! I just can’t wait!
(for someone who, while he is tall, blond, and dumb, will probably be impotent after all of that, and besides, I’ll be sleeping. And few things make me more annoyed than waking up after I’ve fallen asleep.)
Gosh, aren’t you glad you weren’t out tonight? Because, did I mention? He and his friends had big beds. And great pot from Northern California. Awesome.
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