It's another Sunday evening and you know what that means... watching the clock at work and waiting for 7pm. You see, my day started at 8am with walking my two shi-tzus Frodo and Rosie. Then, I scrambled to get my house picked up (you never know what might happen on a club night) and rushed to work, cafe latte in hand. After bumpin' some club music on the way to work while dodging the requisite I-75 traffic, I pulled into the Home Depot parking lot. From 10am to 7pm, I enjoy a waiting game complete with a few families wanting appliances, and a customer asking me to design his kitchen on a CAD program. After going through the workday motions, I realize that there is a mere 15 minutes left. I haven't checked my schedule for the rest of the week have I? Hehe. After a world record for world's slowest march to the time clock, I made my way to my orange chariot (dodge neon) and proceeded to attempt to shock my older co-workers with explicit music (I'm an asshole like that). I called up some of the guys, worked out the ride system, and made my way over to my friend Trey's house. Before I proceed, I should mention that clubbing is kind of an artform for me. I have a portable liquor cabinet in my trunk complete with a watertight compartment for storing club clothes. You never know right? Also, as an aside, Sundays are a notoriously bad night for clubbing and only the most hardcore of clubgoers go out that evening. So, I grabbed a change of clothes from my trunk and headed inside Trey's strangely eternally unlocked door to change. After stealing his cologne, and smiling at the thought of not styling my hair, I headed into the kitchen where 8 guys were trying their best to race each other into intoxication. The goal, become more intoxicated than your peers so you don't have to drive. The winner... What? Why does it have to be me? Seriously though, I called "shotgun" after grabbing a crown and coke and proceeded to argue with those present. My position is that since I have called shotgun, I automatically am disqualified from driving, in spite of the fact that I am the least inebriated. This led to shouts of vagabond and other such colorful language [it was a lot more colorful that that ;)]. After letting each person in the room know, with a wicked smile, that I would gladly represent them con gratis should they need me once I became a lawyer, they each got in one last jibe and proceeded to move on to the next topic, who were we bringing out? As guys do, each swore to provide a bevy of female comfor... company assuring the group that they could, at the touch of a cell phone button, have a veritable cornucopia of women from an endless pool of previous conquests. After the bullshit had subsided, two guys brought girls they were, in their terms, "stringing along", one brought his girlfriend, three had women who magically never materialized, and I called a group of girls I've befriended who all love to go out and get trashed on some poor guy's dime. The guys broke up into cars and everyone went to get their charges. Trey, myself, and two of his erstwhile companions whose names escape me headed out in his Expedition down to Front Page News.
Front Page for the uninitiated is a bar/restaurant/ mild new orleans lovefest. If you don't already have a schtick, let me save you alot of time, Gumbo Ya Ya appetizer, Thai Sriacha Peanut Curry Ribs (hold the cilantro), and finish with a bread pudding. That stuffs one large guy or two drunk people. For drinks, rock the Captains Paradise until you're buzzing, and then switch to long islands with a shot of grenadine. Drink 2 oz of long island and add grenadine to the glass, trust me! After getting what Emeril Lagasse calls "happy," it's about 11 and the girls show up. Sarah is the redhead who smokes weed, but always smells like fresia, Vic is the crazy blonde who is what those in the industry call "a nutjob," and Tonya is the hot one. They showed up with two girls from their sorority whom I had never met and we proceeded to put a head of steam on the evening. Eventually, the night began and ended (more or less) at Velvet Room.
Velvet Room is a well appointed nightclub off of Chamblee Tucker which plays hip hop and rnb mixes most of the night and caters to the african american community. The choice was largely arrived upon by the girls who wanted to meet some of their sorority friends there. So The guys and I crammed the girls into the Explorer, and headed out convoy style. After arriving, the ladies took a few minutes to touch up and adjust, and we headed to the rope.
I know the bouncer Greg who used to go to my church, said hey, and in rare form, no one paid to get in. We even skipped the line, a double rarity. After entering what has to be the most cramped nightclub ever, we proceeded to race each other to max out our debit cards. Luckily, everyone had just been paid the friday before, so we danced, drank, flirted shamelessly, ground against each other, and generally acted in a fashion that makes me glad I'm not Catholic. Worst confessional ever. After the guys began to get drunk and tired, and the girls began to complain of leg cramps, Trey finally gave me the sideways nod in the direction of the door and me and Sarah, I believe, broke away to pay our tabs.
Everyone piled back into the vehicle smelling of sweat alcohol, and eau de nausious. between Trey and his overdone soundsystem and the rediculous rig at the club, we left with the teltale ringing in our ears of a good night. It is in this moment leaning on each other tired and depleted that reality sets in. We have each just spent several hundred dollars and have to work in the morning. Some in the car grumble that they are getting too old for this, and I casually mumble an agreement as I begin an internal battle over calling out tomorrow. Inevitably I do not, I simply take a cold shower, grab a gatorade out of the fridge, and grumble about the dogs taking too long to go to the bathroom.
The next night sleep comes quickly, I come in the front door, check the dogs food and water, walk them, and crash. That sleep, is truly the sleep of kings.
