"You will never believe this! I can't read your new blog (not posted to EONS) at work because Websense says it is "tasteless"...wow, mainstream society called you tasteless! I am so proud of my Biatch! D*mn the Man! Down with the system!"
Honestly, I had never been so proud of myself. Nothing I could think of, the good grades, the collegiate azz-busting, the myriad of writing projects, the half-marathon, the salvaging of a friendship with a porn monger...none of it meant more to me than my writing being rated 'tasteless,' and thus barred from offices world wide. This meant full embracement of my truest self. This meant I had somehow realized my destiny, become the counter-culture, in-your-freaking-face super Contra I knew I could someday be*.
And I had come so far. There was a time, seven years ago, that I was working in a high powered information systems job with acrylic nails. I had expensive clothing that was considered 'fashionable,' yes, the F-word. I drank dirty martinis with specific vodka choices and said things like "David, I'm passionate about delivering you an innovative solution here, developing a really breakthrough, results-oriented customized platform." No wonder I wanted to kill myself.
But yesterday, a mere seven years later, I had taken the crown in cheap jeans and natural nails. I had been named "tasteless." As I was too giddy to keep the joy inside of me, I decided to go out and celebrate my tastelessness with a lot of beer.
This was when the second half of the e-mail came in:
"So, Cindy has asked me to e-mail everyone with "the plan" for this evening..."
The plan involved supporting a mutual friend's club opening in the Burbs. This is Miami, airlifted into the epicenter of Chicagoland. This is the kind of place I would only attend on pain of death cuz this white chick CAN'T dance. I wasn't so much interested in the club. But I had friends to support and celebrating to do. I was TASTELESS!
I picked up Cindy at her place. We went to a 7-11 and bought two tall boys of Miller Light for the train ride, which we sucked down with surprising vigor and punctuated with girly burps. There needed to be a veil of diminished perception between us and this club BEFORE we arrived. While drinking the Miller Light, we befriended two very nice older ethnic gentlemen who asked us why it is that they get such horrible hangovers all the time. They could not figure out why Long Island Iced Teas and MGD give them such bad hangovers. Where do you start? It sort of deflated my confidence to be around these men. It was a reminder that, no matter how tasteless I was, someone somewhere had even less taste. I had work to do.
Cindy and I took the train as far as we could, and then hailed a cab the rest of the way. The doorman at the club was dressed in tropical wear. He smiled as I stored my tall boy on the floor of the cab. Even he, in his prim state was moved by the power of my tastelessness.
Inside Shakira was contracting her oily stomach on large angled screens, and attempting something called "singing" which a lot of people are actually good at. There was a dance floor surrounded by fountains with gauzy curtains, hovering lights that looked like Lucky Charm marshmallows and two liquorless bars made from steel beams with corrugated backing. Cindy and I ordered a beer from one of the bars and were told there was no beer, or limited beers that had to be searched for profusely. I switched my order to a dirty martini (*insert irony here*), and Cindy got a Cosmopolitan. After waiting ten minutes while a pigtailed cutie in a corset named Tulip looked for cranberry juice, we were told that our drinks would be reduced in price. The total came to more than the amount an entire bottle of the liquor we ordered would cost. Yea for clubs!
Shakira monotoned on. We were met by Miss Kitty at the other steel bar. She was wearing an appropriate tank top because it was emblazoned with the phrase "Wild Child." She gave us air kisses. It was awesomely tasteless.
Our friend Matt was the host of the event. Matt is gorgeous and makes me unable to speak English. Seriously. I can't talk around him, and I don't know why. Yes, I am attracted to him, but the effect is much like when Gordon Stevens tried to hold my hand on the youth club bus in the sixth grade. I seize when he asks even the simplest of questions:
Matt: What were you drinking?
Me: Hello.
Matt: No, what kind of drink did you want?
Me: Uh. Alcohol. I want to take you to the movies and hold your hand.
Matt: Can you hear me?
We settled at a table and discussed many tasteless things. As Matt was at our table, I was rather uncomfortable, couldn't really look in his direction at all. I went from tasteless, to azzhole. I decided to cope by drinking more vodka. This worked really well at first. And when I excitedly blurted to Miss Kitty that I was going to "make his azz mine before the week was out" I thought, Biatch, you're tasteless! you sexy bitch!
My new crown and the vodka made me feel warm and giddy inside, so warm and giddy I had a sudden urge to share my tastelessness with Scott. Normally he is too busy wooing ladies and being Mr. Smooth Bidnessman that he can't come out to join me.
Scott: D-Dawg, what are you up to?
Me: [Important to scream, so as to express how much he needed to join us] WE'RE AT THE *insert club name here* in *insert township name here*! YOU COME DRINK WITH US!
Scott: I'll be there in thirty.
Me: YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!
After thirty minutes, and an appalling conversation with a Joely in the bathroom about the calorie content of the mint I had just popped, Scott arrived. He ordered a very large vodka drink, handed me the straw and then chugged it down. He's a star, my Scott.
Matt kept bringing me vodka. Oh Matt, you came and you gave without taking...so I sent you away...
The party eventually started to break up, so we hopped into Scott’s car and drove to an after hours club. The freedom of tastelessness on my tongue, I sat in the back seat of the car and told a story about wanting to kill a lady who had kicked my English bulldog. I had really thought about it too. I remembered her appearance, and she was clearly leaving from her office building (my ex and I lived in downtown San Diego at the time) when she ran into Spike, got spooked and nailed him in the ribs. I could go back there now with a pipe bomb full of ball bearings and maybe some other kind of grotesque shrapnel. I don't know, nail clippers? We'll see. Stay tuned to see if I don't start posting from prison someday.
At the after hours club there was a wait to get in. Cindy decided that we weren't going to wait. She approached a large and attractive employee named Tony and grabbed his nether region. Not only did Tony not mind, but he led us inside and said, "I got deez girls right here." Cindy had found the magical trick knob, pulled it, and revealed the secret passageway to the inner sanctum. I was awestruck by her genius.
Once inside, we sat down and ordered beers. And that's when I saw him. I need to explain something about my vision. It's freaking horrible, like 20/?-a large and disproportionate number. I can't wear contacts, as they pop out of my small Irish eyes, and I lose my glasses all the time. I've gotten used to not seeing. I actually enjoy it at times; life is much dreamier when all its imperfections are blended out into a warm blur. Who wants to go to an after hours club and see wrinkles? I'd rather go and see thirty gorgeous broad shouldered ghosts.
So, I saw him, a gorgeous broad shouldered ghost in a silk suit. He had long hair like Rambo (the early pics). I was taken immediately. Cindy winked at the guy and he walked over and sat down. Our conversation went like this:
Hunk: Hi there gorgeous. You having fun?
OH MY GOD.
Irish: Uh, yes. How are you?
Hunk: I'm great. What's your name?
OH MY LORD ON HIGH
Irish: I'm something that starts with a ‘D’
Hunk: It's nice to meet you, D.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR TEETH, MAN?
Irish: So. Um. I like your shoes
Hunk: Thanks
ARE YOU A SHARK? WHY ARE YOUR TEETH GROWING IN DOUBLES? AND WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE I AM CHUM?
I got up suddenly and made a hasty departure from the club. I hadn't planned on leaving after only one drink and no booty shaking. But I had to run, far and fast as I could from that conversation, because something about it had deeply disturbed me. Had I grown out of my club phase? Had I stared into the dark heart of the suburban gigolo, repellant in his quest to stay virile forever? Nope. I merely discovered that tastelessness, like anything, has its drawbacks.
I'm not giving up, though. I'll never give up.
*Personal Note: I believe every writer must test the bounds of propreity, or at the very least, test his or her own boundaries...this need seems to come from the depth of us...we are forever craving the desire to put something fresh down on "paper"...we want to lead our readers out into the expanse...to take them beyond the paths well traveled into territory less charted. To overwhelm their minds with images not usually or never pondered upon. This is our mind expanding substance of choice. The powerful written word...it has been said that it can take you anywhere you can imagine...
