Tuesday, October 18, 2011

You Will Never Get In

      Life imitating art, art imitating life; this flows through my goose-egged skull as I lie in hungover remembrance of shenanigans somewhat manufactured, somewhat fated. I reveled in the faint smell of pet food, the lingering scratches from scaling a sheer brick wall, and the vague sense of self-satisfaction.

Note:  The events detailed below are true and are without embellishment (because it isn't required).


"Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk, that'll keep your mouth shut."
- Ernest Hemmingway


      The evening began with wine and pounding away on my then new Remington Rand typewriter. The sonorous hammer-falls of my own glorious words became a sweet cadence; and being half Irish; I paid homage to my betheren in buzzing, contemplative solitude (drinking alone poeticized); before meeting up with Don, Shem, and Tom for a St. Patty's Day romp. The plan was to go to a party. Parties are fun.  You can mingle.

      I arrived at Shem's later than anticipated, and they had already begun drinking (shotgunning, specifically), toasting my late arrival. When I got there Shem was already drunk, emphatic, reminding me very much of Charlie Sheen, all jerky hand movements and inaudible shouting.

       He was having a heated argument with one of his friends, Andrew, who warned us that the clock was ticking on the bars; that if we didn't make our way downtown sooner rather than later, we'd be stuck in line like all the other suckers.

Andrew begged us to go to Ceeps with him.

However, Shem was meeting a girl, and had planned on attending the party, allowing no possible argument to be made.  He assured us the party was a rager, and likely unforgettable. I would later agree, as it became solidified in these very words.

 They argued back and forth on the merits of parties versus bars:

-Andrew: "I have girls waiting at ceeps, it's a sure thing," he nodded, eyebrow raised meaningfully.    (Shem all the while standing behind him, making the motions of ever-expanding hips to match his puffed cheeks).

-Shem: "WHATEVER DUDE LETS GO TO A PARTY THERE'S PLENTY OF TIME," he assured us.

      This argument replicated itself over a course of twenty or so minutes. They never made any headway in either direction. The only discernible progression being an increase in volume. It reminded me of a wise proverb (that I divined):

"He who is loudest, wins."

      Andrew ended up leaving, taking a cab to ceeps, and oh, what I would give to go back in time and tell myself to join him then.

We shotgunned a beer out on Shem's deck, and took a cab to the party.

      It must have been, in my experience, one of the lamest parties I've been to. There were maybe 12 people, and a large  percentage (8.3%) of that group consisted of my ex. So we began the evening with some tangy awkwardness (I still have her Harry Potter book). There were four seated at a table, two on a couch, and a few wanderers in this basement party where, to my astonishment, few drinks were actually being consumed with the voracity I expected for the occasion. I immediately approximated them justly as cowards.

Did you know? You can judge a book actually pretty well by its cover. Twilight looks so bad!

      Don and I decided it was time to leave, as St. Patty's is not to be squandered on trivial celebrations. Before departing I could not, despite my deep desire to avoid violence, prevent myself from mocking someone. One of the fellows we passed by as we left was laughing; altogether unremarkable, except it was one of those... funny-laughs. Some male laughs are a low rumble like huh-huh-huh; while others are hah-hah-hah but this guy had something crazy goin on, it was somewhat like hih-hih-hih-HEEEee. I replicated the laugh with exact precision, and to my disappointment, he did not appreciate my impression.

      Nevertheless, our time there was done; so Don and I left, and waited on the front lawn for the cab to arrive. We spotted some people standing on the other side of the grass, and I decided this was a good chance to hone my razor sharp mingling skills. Unfortunately, the girl I chose to mingle at had been beside her friend who I had mocked only moments ago. She expressed her distaste with my brand of humour. I assured her it was funny, but she remained unconvinced.

Ben, extending olive branch: "listen I was just kidding around, I don't dislike the guy, I just find his laugh hilarious - I might like him, but I don't even know him."

girl: "You DONT even know him."

Ben: "This lawn has a pretty bad echo."

     This girl was not particularly symmetrical to begin with, and anger was not her most flattering emotion. The description that fits is Ray Romano performing all the Snooki dialogue of a Jersey Shore episode in 1.5x speed.

      When someone knows nothing about you and is trying to insult you, the conversation will almost certainly lead to "you're gay." In this situation, I often agree with them and see where it goes. This conversation ensued:

-girl: "You must be in musical theatre, you're so flamboyantly gay."

Ben: "So you're homophobic?"

-girl: "no, I-"

Ben: "I'd be jealous if I were devoid of all femininity also."

      After some back and forth, the novelty of the conversation grew tiresome, and I longed for the cab. She left in poor spirits shortly after I stopped acknowledging her cycle of self-embarassment.

Soon after, I declared:

 "What a hive of morons," and tossed my beer can at a tree in triumph. 

      Unfortunately, one of her minions was listening to my cries of victory. They quickly decided to form a rabble for a good ol' fashioned game of "get males to push Ben to prove we're not morons." So the guy I mocked came out rampaging, muttering drunkenly "what the fuck did you say?" and pushing me, and at times my friend Don, who stood fairly mute during all this. We were outnumbered  3-1, and I have a nasty neck injury, so I was avoiding a melee at all costs. So while the females called for blood from the sidelines, I befriended the guy who'd just pushed me, we shook hands, and he agreed that his laugh was indeed funny.

      However, the mob demanded satisfaction. The girl who I was definitely sure hated me now, brought out a can of cat food and threw a bunch on my shirt. I did not flinch, for I do not fear cat food lynchings. After all, St. Patty's day is a day for getting stains on you, shit's just gonna happen.
The cab arrived just as they began throwing things at me (the goose-egg on my head is from a beer can).

      We got to The Ceeps and got in line. We only waited a few minutes before we were about to get in, and the bouncer inspected me, covered in a viscous brown substance (and perhaps understandably) he refused me entry, and exclaimed:

"You will never get in here."

un challenge?

Don offered to leave the line, but I smiled and told him not to worry, that I would be getting in.

I began by trying to convince the bouncer that I was not that drunk, and that my shenanigans were charming:

"it's just cat food, it's not feces or anything,"

"get lost."

      So I hit the street, to see what I could come up with. I decided that if Matt Damon (Bourne, not Good Will Hunting) wanted to get in that bar, he damn well would. The logical place to start was a connecting bar called Barney's, which I knew had a few places where you could pass from one to the other.  No big deal right?  Wrong.

 I went around the corner and entered Barney's which, due to the good weather and my good fortune, was open. However, I found upon searching for a thoroughfare that all the entrances were barred (some of them had bouncers guarding them!). I quickly brainstormed five methods:

1) I went over to the side washrooms and began scaling the fence to get on the roof, but upon inspection (and consideration of consequences) I changed my mind on that plan.

2) I saw some servers running in and out of a door I thought connected to ceeps (in fact it didn't, but whatever it was still fun to try). I was caught almost immediately by one of the bouncers:

"Hey you're not allowed in there," he said, grabbing my arm.

"Thank God you found me, where are the washrooms?" I asked, innocent.

"Oh, around the corner there." (being drunk is like being a baby, you just get away with things for no reason).

3) I went into the Barney's washroom, which I knew connected to the Ceeps one. However, it was padlocked. I considered kicking the door in, but there was too high a risk of someone being on the other side and potentially alerting the easily excitable cro magnons that had barred me from entry in the first place.

4) I made my way to the interior of Barney's (normally a patio bar), which was quite nice - it had a bookshelf that I helped myself to for a bit while I waited for inspiration to strike. I saw a friend working there, but he was unable to sneak me in after much goading.

5) I had almost given up and was sitting on a bar stool, talking to Harrison's hot cousin who also worked there and had just finished her shift. I was complaining that I kept getting thwarted by fate, and I think I was boring her, because she didn't seem interested in chatting (cat food probably didn't help). The conversation still had its merits though; for example:

      I learned that the only way into ceeps from Barney's was through the kitchen.

     I penetrated, a shadow at night, past the secondary bar, between the wary servers, around a bouncer patrol and into the alcove where the entrance lay - I pressed the door with conviction, checking my peripherals for meat heads.
 
      The only obstacle between me and winning, became a solitary cook, who stood in concentration, looming over whatever miscreation he was deep frying. I decided for this move, hiding in plain sight was best. So I strode right up beside the cook and inhaled deeply:

"Smells tasty." I said, grinning.

"Oh- uh -what - hey! You're not supposed to be in here," he said, looking around as though he might be in trouble, confused as to how i got in there unnoticed.

"Oh, yeah I was looking for the washroom," (classic.)

And then came the decisive moment:

"Wait, which washroom, Barney's or Ceeps?" He asked.

I emerged from the ceeps kitchen, nowhere near the washroom, behind the bar.  I waved hello to the packed line of patrons and nodded casually to the bartenders as I strode to the bar-latch, lifted it, and let myself free into the crowd. 

My victory later became absolute as I was leaving via the very exit the original bouncer had assured me I'd never get into.

I winked and tossed a loonie at his feet.