Oblivious to the tension shimmering around me, I sat down happily and got out my iPod to listen to the new MUSE album. My hands were dry so I took out some lotion and rubbed some of it on my arms and witnessed, incredulously, as the Mexican fisherman thrust his body over the seat in front of me and waved his hands frantically in my face. He muttered something that sounded like: "Please. Stop. The Odor!"
After my enjoyable jaunt on the commuter bus, I headed to the restaurant to meet some of my college friends. I have an unfortunate habit of being ridiculously late (I blame the Germans) so I took an earlier bus to make absolutely sure I was there on time. This made me arrive before any of the other ten people which, of course, meant that I needed to have at least two Berry martinis before anyone got there.
Apparently when berry martinis and cider are combined with three shots of Jameson whiskey, I advocate the following: going to The Hustler strip club, getting a lap dance by a sad looking Eastern European stripper who insists that she likes girls better than boys (strippers don't lie!), spending $400 on grape caffeine infused vodka, getting into a fight with the coat check girl, and allowing my friend to almost die when tackled into a cab by a guy who may have been one of those Egyptian mummies unearthed in the Valley of Kings.
Sounds like a great night, huh? My hazy, strange conversation with the Eastern European Stripper my friend Derek paid to give me a lap dance was just one of the many, many interesting moments of this college reunion of sorts.
EES: I like girls.
Lola: Oh, um. Thanks. You smell good?
EES: Are you bi?
Lola: Actually we don't have a by for another few weeks. We play Michigan State tomorrow.
EES: (blank stare) Scuse me? (amidst more gyration) Want private room? I like girls.
Lola: (looking at her friends for help) Thanks for the offer, but I'll pass.
EES: You can smack my ass, you know.
So I don't remember if I actually spoke about Notre Dame having a by week out loud to the gyrating woman, smacking her own ass, in front of me but I do remember that was the first thought in my head at the time. Stupid alcohol.
I suppose, to be fair, I really can't completely blame everything on the whiskey. I'd like to nominate my friend Cooper for at least 1/3 of the blame. Before the bevy of Eastern European strippers, Cooper asked me about my blog. After a brief debate on what his moniker would be if he were to make an appearance (I wanted Lance and he suggested Hank), our brief conversation consisted of this:
Cooper: So I want to be in your blog. How does one get in there?
Lola: Either be ridiculously funny or do something incredibly embarrassing.
Cooper: How about I get depressed, have a fight with my estranged wife on an NYC sidewalk, get the others to take me to a strip club where you and Dean have to go running around the Hustler Club trying to save me and my wallet from a used-up bleach blond stripper who is desperately clinging onto her youth?
Lola: That sounds perfect! Thanks.
And that's exactly how Cooper finally ended up in my blog. Please give him a warm welcome. I'd also like to take this opportunity to thank him for sharing his chicken fettuccine with me at 5 am after our brief sojourn to Gray's Papaya where we ate the best hot dogs known to man.
For Kane's reaction to this night of debauchery (as he was woefully missing!) and the evolution of a drunk text, please stay tuned for Part Deux!