There’s something to be said for great wingmen. Actually, there’s quite a bit to be said for great wingmen. Over the course of my life, I’ve been blessed with wingpeople who can step out, maintain an appropriate level of party insanity, and hang in for the long haul. And when I say wing people, I’m not talking necessarily about the frat boy/Coors light commercial definition of wingman. I’m not in it for someone to help throw women at me. I’m talking about partners in crime, people to which you can hold yourself accountable in the bar, people who are going to go to war with you and the bottle and not back down until you close a place down. DPro, Topher, ChengJ, Hessica, Paaat, Gavroche and Chaz. These are all people that I know I can trust in any setting to step up and get the job done. And now, with E and our endless similarities (other than, of course, me being a small white kid and him being a huge Filipino), there’s been a new emergence of wingman status which from henceforth shall be known as the Brothers Grimm.
I step out Friday night without much of a plan other than the idea that with no work on Saturday, I’m going to finally get a Friday night where I can go all out. I start by dropping a musically laden pod off in the city before heading over to Topher and ChengJ’s where they’re enjoying some liars dice and a website that tracks down your location through your cell phone (phonetrace.org). Crazy big brother world going on out there. By the time I’ve gotten there and they’re getting ready to leave, it’s already late. We head down the street to Mauna Loa, but just looking at the inside of the bar gives me second thoughts and I stay on the sidewalk.
I hit the cab, loving the fact that I can listen to music and text without having both cell phone and iPod in my pockets, and head to Broadway to meet up with E at the I. E’s not there yet, but the bouncer knows me now, lets me in, and I spend my time waiting chatting it up with Dagmar at the bar and fending myself off from unwanted advances. It’s odd how quickly this bar, which I would never have gone into before, has become a bit of a second family. It’s E’s equivalent of City Tavern, only it took less time for the bouncer and bartender to know my name and they make drinks to get drunk.
The night is pretty much what I was hoping for in the way of good drinks, good people and low stress. After dropping off a sack on my way out of town, I make it home at about 3.
Saturday night, E’s got the agenda with two birthday parties on tap. We make our way to Redwood City (I like how Irish Genius calls it Deadwood Shitty) and get to Mel’s party, an affair being held in their condo’s social room. There, the inebriated birthday girl is dancing and offering the reward of 26 spanks to the person who best answers a quiz about her. Having met her two weeks ago, I think I answer none of the questions right, although for some reason most involve questions relating to dancing and/or stripping. We’re there for the cameo before we head to grab Coach to make the second birthday.
If the first birthday reminded me of a high school party with chips, dip, pool, quiz and a clubhouse setting, the second party is the complete and exact opposite. I get out on the Peninsula, and I definitely make my rounds in the city, but how many of you have ever headed out to Brisbane for a party? We get to the 7 Mile Club and boy is it a scene. It’s a birthday party for one of the bartenders, and the place is packed with a fresher diversity than I’ve seen in a city bar in a while.
It’s some hipsters, some bikers, some frat kids and some others, all getting rowdy together. The DJ is on fire, playing some really old school tracks that everyone in the place can agree on. The birthday girl (surprisingly not that different in inebriation or dance proclivity from the previous birthday girl) spends some time dancing on the bar, blowing out birthday candles and making me smile with a great t-shirt that says, “It’s my birthday bitch.” And right she is. Outside, the bar is very j friendly and I kill one or two before it’s time to go. Unfortunately, one of the guys with us can’t swim as well, and about 10 minutes into the car ride he looks green. And not a good green. I see him say something about pulling over before he starts covering his mouth, and then he starts to drip. I’m yelling at E to pull over, but we’re right behind a cop and it can’t be done. He continues dripping from his hands, E pulls over and the guy basically pops on the sidewalk. He’s mumbling apologies, I’m just trying to keep him as far away from me as possible. After that lovely show, E drops me off at my place and the weekend comes to a close.
Sunday evening, just to make things interesting, Z, Hessica and myself hit Behan's. Always a lovely and interesting time, Behan's on Sunday nights...A guy walks up to me out of the blue and asks me if I'm a part of Hell's Angels or any other gang, and if I was talking shit. I'm more than a bit confused. I find out later that Z and Hessica WERE talking shit about this guy...luckily I didn't know that at the time so my surprise at his question looked real. But c'mon....who would really ask me, seriously, if I was a gang member?
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