Saturday, April 19, 2008

Friday night, Saturday Morning

The last couple of Saturdays I’ve awoken with some type of stamp emblazoned on the top of my right hand, fuzzy and inky remains of the night before. I try not to wash that spot too rigorously in the morning. I like to wear my mark for a day after, a not-so-permanent-marking that reads I’m out in life again. And often. And enjoying the hell of it. Observations from my night:

Jim Dalton, singer of local band The Railbenders, is one sincerely sexy beast, tall, with a deep baritone and a black hat. He's also one of the nicest, seemingly least affected guys you’ll ever meet, Must be oddly disturbing and exciting all at once to have so much passion directed at you just for showing up. He wears a band on his left ring finger. His wife or sig other must have the confidence and understanding of a Saint, or a rock star.

Not long after arriving at the downtown tavern with tattooed bar keeps and rockabilly vibe (after a dinner of the best g-damn fish and chips I've found in Denver) and minutes after a quick pee, I was hit on in the ladies. A petite brunette with huge boobs fully embraced me while I applied more apricot gloss, and with a broad smile whispered in my ear “cute”. Again, with the fucking cute. Little would I imagine two hours would pass before girl number two (this one a bit drunk, so the move could have been accidentaly uninhibited in nature) grabbed my ass as I leaned against a speaker, stage front. I had some juju with the ladies last night. I went home alone.

Later, while chatting with the nice, young and engaged couple sitting left of me, I placed my near empty martini glass on the bar, the dirty, filthy Vodka martini my drink of choice. She started vacantly at the glass for many moments then back to me and declared, “Is that a martini you’re drinking? You’re hardcore”. This from a sweet thing who’d taken a liquid trip around the world, with stops in Germany and Ireland with pals Jager and Jameson, stopping for a squat by a cool mountain Coors stream and ending in a whisky sojourn down South. She was shit-faced. In fact, I last saw her chatting in a wildly animated fashion with a cute rockabilly girl, wavy ginger hair held in two low pony tails peeking beneath a blue head scarf, dark plum Bettie Page lips, discussing a possible foursome. Hardcore indeed. Did I mention I went home alone?

One last note for a Saturday: Having brunch bloodies with a friend tomorrow at BJ’s Brew Pub. What do you tip there?


Joe the Troll said...

"“Is that a martini you’re drinking? You’re hardcore”

Funny, I was told the same thing when I got bored with vodka martinis and started drinking whiskey neat.

Don said...

I went home alone.

But did you have fun? Did you watch people, and bump and get bumped into, and live in every moment? I admit I never went home with anyone I met at a bar. For years I thought it was like some rite of passage I missed out on. Now I'm all, what, again, is the point? A quick validation of my attractiveness or their desperation or our common need, I don't know, I'm too serious anyway ... And then you describe that ginger-haired rockabilly girl with plum lips and potentially an open-minded boyfriend and, oh yeah, I remember the point now. Pleasure for all, an' has we got a driver? :)

Jefferson said...

What did you end up tipping? I'm a pretty generous tipper, for the most part. Except for counter service. I don't tip the counter service. I may, just may, through the extra change into a jar if I paid cash, but the tip line on a charge slip for counter service? A circle with a line through it. I'm putting a tip jar on my desk. Did I mention rockabilly girls are the female equivalent to the "bad boys" you ladies love to lust after so much? Love that ink...

Jodie Kash said...

I'm a great tipper, especailly at BJ's Brew Pub. Those BJ's love me and welcome me back anytime.

I lust after rockabilly girls too. Just the kissing.

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