To you, and you.
I am perhaps freaking out just a little bit that it’s taken me until Tuesday night to write these things down, the things I need to get out of my head by typing them. If you do this web thing, you know exactly what I mean. This is the first hour I’ve had to sit down since, um. Friday, maybe? We’re leaving for Owen’s in 45 minutes, which makes this a race which I will win. Spelling be damned. Dateline: Halloween. 8pm.My trick-or-treat for this year was made complete by the two typical Minnesota guys: Vikings fans, weekend hunters, boat-owners. They were trailing three young kids in smeared facepaint, clutching old pillowcases, around the neighborhood. I offered them a beer, and they excitedly accepted. “Oh! It’s even the champagne of beers!” one of them exclaimed. The other offered me a shot from his flask. Minnesotans aren’t always so unfriendly, I guess. There’s hope. 10pm.
As some kind of cosmic payback for my good fortune in escaping a well-deserved speeding ticket last week, we got caught in a speed trap crossing the Hennepin Avenue bridge, right by Nye’s. The
Heather and I escorted The Sexiest Man in America (who will soon have a blog devoted exclusively to his superhot handlebar moustache, if I have anything to do with it) to dinner in the lounge at King & I, which is fabulous and exactly the kind of place you need to be when you are dining with The Sexiest Man in America. On second thought, what the Sexiest Man in America really needs is to seat his sexy ass in a glittery round booth (a la Isaac Hayes’ restaurant). So that’s why we headed over to Nye’s after dinner. We pulled up to the valet and went up to the bouncer with IDs in hand, even though every time I go, I hope that I am still a regular, and that I still get the VIP treatment, in which my companions and I are waved in the door as if we were celebrity polka bar insiders. This time, the bouncer stopped me. He asked, “Hey, did you get tagged last night?” while pointing at the spot the next block down where we were so ignominiously preyed upon by law enforcement. That kind of killed me. In the bar, all the Isaac Hayes booths were occupied by decidedly unsexy non-insiders, so we seated ourselves in the next room, far enough away from the karaoke bar to only have to hear half of ‘Piano Man’. I went to the bathroom 13 or 14 times, and during one of those trips, I encountered the girls I always suspected existed somewhere, but really hoped they didn’t. They were attending a day-after Halloween party in the rented-out room downstairs. We stood in line against the wall, waiting for the single functioning toilet, avoiding eye contact in the mirror. They needed the wall for support, they were that drunk. One girl said to the other (in what I thought was the most painfully irritating whine ever, until I heard the second girl speak): “OH MY GAAAAWD! Look how much wider my hips are than yours!” The other girl responded: “Shut up! Why do people always have to point that out? My mom says when I get babies, they’re gonna rip me wide open!” I was witness to the entire conversation, which involved babies and tearing, and then STDs, when one girl finally stumbled into the stall and read the Planned Parenthood ad out loud. I smiled and nodded as each of them took their turn being chatty with me while the other peed. I even heard the details of one girl’s sex life, as told by her friend, while she sat in the stall and yelled, “Shut up! You bitch! But it’s true!” I hope I never get babies, just on the off chance they might turn out like those girls. Damn. Time to go. Good night.
Jenni