Monday, April 25, 2005

Blame It on the Purple Midget

I think I put into one of the installments of "100 Things About Me" that I don't drink.

Unfortunately, after working most of yesterday on a project that would have been done four weeks ago (no weekend hours required) if most of the key people in my department with were not brain damaged, I found myself inexplicably craving alcohol.

I wondered if this might, perhaps, be a sign of delayed-onset normality. Normal people like a drink after a hard day, right? One says, "I need a drink," and one has the drink, and then one achieves what I have heard referred to as a "buzz" or "glow," or one "mellows out."

Now I have never (in answer to your question, Ms. Newton-John) been mellow, and last night I thought it might be time to try.

By coincidence, it was also Prince Night at this club in Boystown called Berlin.

Berlin is a place I'd never have set foot in before I met Chris. I hate bars, for one thing. I'm shy under any circumstances, and in a place where I can't make myself heard over the music I'm reduced to invisibility. Not a recipe for happiness.

But Berlin has a monthly event devoted to the artist formerly known as the Artist Formerly Known as Prince, and one of the side-effects of dating a devotée is that I've gone along for the ride once or twice. My acquaintance with Prince is limited mostly to "Darling Nicky"* and "Raspberry Beret" (which were banned at my Catholic school, and therefore played incessantly by my classmates). Nonetheless, I like Chris's friends, the music is growing on me, and I feel honor-bound to support the artistic endeavors of other Very Short Men.

Chris ordered me a rum and pineapple juice, after double-checking to make sure I wasn't kidding. I'd had one once a long time ago, in Ogunquit, on an afternoon when Mr. Ex got so insufferably drunk the only way I could cope was to go along with him. I remembered the taste was nice, but forgot that about a quarter-glass had turned my knees into room-temperature gelatin.

Last night, I drank half the glass. I hear I was fun to dance with.

This morning, the sound of my eyes blinking is making me wince.

If there's a silver lining to the cloud, it's the knowledge that my incipient normality was only an illusion.

*I always wondered how exactly one did that with a magazine? And what magazine was it? Cat Fancy? Better Homes and Gardens?


Jon said...

Ooo, you poor punkin...I love pineapple and rum but it's better if it's Capt Morgans or Malibu. Kinda like a Pina Colada on the rocks.

Next time some twatty spanish woman calls you a "faggot" in spanish, call her a "puta." That should shut her up.

birdfarm said...

This is adorable. I love seeing you write about being shy and short. It's beautiful. You're beautiful. No, I'm not drunk, although I'm about to go buy fifteen acres of land, but that's another story.

I would advise against calling anyone a "puta," because you never know who might spring to her defense and leave you with a lot more to wince about than the sound of your eyelids. For a lighter touch try "gordita" or "pendeja"--mildly insulting, but not life-threatening (for you that is). Now of course I would really love to hear the rest of THAT story... but I suspect I may be asking in vain.

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