PickledCherub

Last night was almost too eventful to write about, but I'll try.

After a day of floor scrubbing, house cleaning, painting, and DVD watching (13 Going on Thirty starring Jennifer Garner: a gem), work was pleasingly slow but still moderately profitable. I convinced Simon to take me to the underground, after-hours bar that he goes to after work. The bar is in the South East Industrial District, and is, as far as I can tell, an apartment in a warehouse that is going to be renovated after its short stint as Service Industry Slum. You have to knock on the door to be let in, and it was a challenge to find the place. Simon and I drove there after work, after calling Lana to make sure she'd be there. We sat in his car and drank our shift drinks, smoked cigarettes, and waited for the bartender to show up. Without him, D, there is no bar. His "lawyer" drove by, and pulled his car up next to ours and talked about something, I don't know what. I played the sweet and silent girl, mysteriously tough with nothing to say. D pulled up about ten minutes later, and Simon and I walked into the bar, the first customers of the night.

We still had to knock, which was fun (there's a guy who's job it is to screen people--what a job!). It was dark, but I could make out a make-shift bar, a few low couches in the back of the room, and a black-lit pool table in the second room. Also, a bathroom, the floor covered in toilet paper and cigarette butts, but with surprisingly nice soap, like Aloe and Chamomille nice. I was introduced to D, something that I think everyone has to do. Because, well, it feels more like you're at someone's party than at a bar, so it makes sense to get to know the host and to thank him for his hospitality. Simon and I sat down on one of the couches and waited a bit to buy the cards.

You don't pay drink by drink, you pay fifteen dollars and get a card. When I heard "card," I thought, "You mean, like a Stumptown Card, with slots for your hole-punches?" Not exactly. I got a Two of Diamonds Snoopy playing card. A card gets you four drinks. Four stiff drinks. I watched D pour my second drink (perhaps I should've been paying attention from the start), and he did a five or six count pour. That's twice what normal bars do. That's an I'm-spending-Christmas-with-my Family-and-I-don't-want-them-to-think-I-drink-to-cope pour.

Lana and her friend Jersey showed up, and we just sat on the couches and watched as the patrons straggled in. We talked about work, about new relationships and breaking up and moving in, about sex and not-sex. Typical getting to know the co-workers stuff, as far as I can tell. When we got to the bar around two thirty, it was empty; at four thirty, when I convinced Lana to take me home, it was packed.

I'd only had three drinks, plus one and a half beers before, but I was completely wasted. Wasted enough that I had to have my head in the breeze and concentrate really hard on not throwing up in Lana's car. I made it home safely, walked into the bathroom, and commenced a nice and neat session of vomitting in the sink. I love throwing up in the sink. It's the only civilized way to go. I learned that at Alexia's house in Santa Cruz. Unfortunately, I threw up in her Kitchen sink, which was essentially open to her living room where all of her housemates were watching TV. Oh, well. Live and Learn.

I let Sedna out, got a glass of water, and passed out in Lindsay's bed. Then I woke up at ten, feeling fine, and went and had brunch at work. Now I'm going to watch the original Manchurian Candidate and maybe, if I feel up to it, clean my room. I should probably take a shower, since I'm on-call right now. Nobody wants disaster relief from a stink-pot.