22 June, 2011

One of these days, this will become a DIY home recording blog.

Lady Season is upon us again in Minneapolis, mon petit illiterati, for the weather stays decent and the ladies crave sobriety-abandoning adventures that lead to three in the morning bed times. Last night, I was accompanied by two Dutch women, one Japanese woman, and a Yankee gal who waits tables down the block... in addition to the Alaskan guy, the French guy, the Californian, and a beret sporting hippie.
The hippie left after his ice water* which left the rest of us to talk of... I don't know, something, when the hour was announced and the rest of us bounced up the street to... wait for it... Gangchen.

Pictured: NASA scientists have actually found a rip in the space-time continuum where "shit can simultaneously get ugly and start looking good."
It was on our way to the Gang that I spotted the Yankee gal who normally waits tables at the Forest. It was her night off and she was presently leaving Jasmine 26...

Pictured: Better egg rolls.
... so we told her to join us and she said sure, OK, why not? In addition to the Yankee, California's girlfriend, Philadelphia, joined us as well. At that point, the odds, though not completely desirable, were at least serviceable.
California was obviously with Philadelphia.
Japan had taken a fancy to France. It was France's last night here, after all, so if he had a card to pull, that was it.
That left me and Alaska as the only two males. Brunette Dutch was already quite taken with Alaska and Blonde Dutch was chatting up everybody at the table. I'd had an eensy-beensy crush on Yankee for a while, though, and there was my dilemma: I could either A) engage more thoroughly with Blonde Dutch who was not sending any solid signals my way beyond that she was drunk (and quite the light weight, too, might I add) and looking for a conversation partner, thus I ran a strong chance of a rebuffed advance and looking like an undiscriminating opportunist and a man slut in front of Yankee...

Pictured: Man Slut.
... or B) (this is "B" now) decrease amount of conversation with Blonde Dutch - who I was, technically, going to be going home with - to further engage Yankee who, it seemed, was genuinely interested in things I had to say and was anticipating my arrival tonight (Writer's Workshop is tonight) though her particular interest in me seemed to be equal to Blonde Dutch's: as a conversation partner.
Or the short version: This drunk bird from Amsterdam was talking to me and my lonely ass thought I might be able to get some sex but then this bird that I've had my eye on for a while showed up and I got confused.
Unexpectedly, one of Yankee's friends showed up. Guy friend. Quiet guy friend. Awkwardly quiet. The kind of quiet that looks around the room at the people with funny accents...

... and this fucking guy...
... and says, "Who are these people? This is weird. I am uncomfortable and I can't relate to anything they say and I wish my friend would finish her drink so we can leave." That kind of quiet. I know that kind of quiet. I know that kind of quiet intimately and indeed practiced it at parties where people didn't have funny accents but funny jargon. Masters students. I was that kind of quiet because I was The Boyfriend.
Yankee introduced homeboy as her friend but I could tell just after a few moments of his quietude that he was indeed operating as a boyfriend in some capacity.
This nearly solved my dilemma. I would now start incrementally redirecting attention to Blonde Dutch... who was now straddling the fine line between cock block and wing girl with Brunette Dutch, stealing Alaska's attention. On top of that, she had a half a bottle of whiskey level of drunk to her after four beers. Perhaps she front loaded before we hit the bars, that's always a possibility, but, man, after four beers she was drunk. Both of the Dutch were.
Or maybe she was hardly buzzed and the Dutch just naturally cut loose a lot easier. I don't know. After searching through the hallowed halls of SD&A for references to the Dutch, I find that I've never actually socialized with any Dutch person, save for the Armenian-Dutch woman from last summer but that doesn't really count because we never saw each other off the premises.
After packing her fried tofu squares (hey, I don't get it, either) into a to-go box, Yankee gets up from the table and tells me that she'll see me tomorrow (that being today) and Friend/Boyfriend? gets up to follow so I said, Fuck it, and just put it out there: I said, Yeah, yeah, right on. Should I get your number or - ?
"Well, I'll just see you tomorrow."
Right on, cool, have a good night.
"You, too!" she said as she left, dragging Friend/Boyfriend? behind her.
You see, there were three people at play in my question:
  1. Obviously me. I am a wee bit interested and I want to make fuck.
  2. Yankee, again, obviously, because I want to gauge her interest.
  3. Friend/Boyfriend? to gauge his reaction to the audacity of the wonton eating lumberjack asking for Yankee's number right in front of him. As his expression remained blank, I surmised that he was a non-threat.
And so, after a few more drinks, with Blonde Dutch in the throes of a rollicking conversation to my left and France attempting to eat the world's largest plate of fried rice while Japan just watched, I figured it was OK to let my geek flag fly: I, a grown goddamned man, talked about anime in public with California and Philadelphia. An anime discussion, mind you, that made Japan look at us like we were dorks.
She came from the country that manufacturers it.
She heard two impassioned and one casual enthusiasts discuss it.
And that weirded her out.
The night died back at the patio here at the house as the thunderstorm came barreling in. Blonde Dutch began chewing Japan's ear (not literally), Brunette Dutch and Alaska were blurry eyed and quiet on the couch. France was taking pictures of everything. Philadelphia and I talked about the education system while California tried to initiate a three in the morning card game. Everything slowly died down as I killed my last two beers and went to bed, regretfully with dry shorts but thankfully without the dizzying drunk the others were undergoing, ensuring that I would wake up this morning without a hangover.
Lady Season is upon us.**

* The hippie, I swear to fuck, ordered water. Water. Sure, we were a table of eight, so our server down at Black Forest wasn't going to hurt for tips - at least she shouldn't have hurt for tips. But water? Water? That guy was the most useless guy at the table.
** Just in time for next week. You know what next week is, right? You should have marked it on your calendar.

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