Of Spotting the Drunk Banana

Banana Costume

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I can’t say I love Halloween. I never have, even as a child I thought it was immensely overrated: trick or treating took way too long, the candy was disappointing, and it was intensely cold. I’d rather stay home.

As I got older I really wanted to like Halloween, I did. I threw a party in high school. I wore a slutty costume my sophomore year of college and went clubbing. I drove all the way to Seattle to party on Capital Hill. For all these adventures I was moderately amused, but I’ve never felt the excitement that people around me seemed to indulge in. Course, I’m usually 95% sober – that might be part of the problem.

But every year as I hang around my buddies, and watch them drink in their Halloween bliss, I keep up my search for the Drunk Banana.

Almost every Halloween I stumble across a Drunk Banana. A belligerent male stumbling around the streets, tripping over his tongue, with the tip of the banana suit beginning to sag. That Banana is one shot away from passing out behind a dumpster and snuggling against a mound of trash. Regardless of his, not-so-classy, demeanor he’s entertaining. I hail Satan for bringing me the Drunk Banana and all the people watching joy that he provides.

This year I missed the Drunk Banana. He slipped passed my vision as I ditched the mainstream Halloween realm of cocktails and techno music to embark on the underground Blues Dancing scene that owns my soul. I made the better choice, trust me, for once Halloween didn’t completely suck.

But I missed my version of the Great Pumpkin. Maybe next year.

Of The Drunken Twin Connection

Drunk Twins

I’m going to make a grand assumption and believe that everyone knows about the Twin Connection. I mean, a generation who grew up watching Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen movies, at the very least, should understand that twins are able to sense when the other is in trouble, their stomach hurts, pissed off, keeping a secret, overtly happy, has a new love interest, and so forth. It’s a miraculous skill that can only be developed in the womb.

I’m not a twin – but I know some twins.

My dear friends Britney and Dawn recently turned 21, so I along with my friend Alleschea took them out for their 21-run. Basically, a bar hopping experience where they are expected, in fact, it’s a demand that they get so shitfaced they won’t be able to function properly for three days. We decked them out in adorable birthday hats, sashes, shot glass necklaces, and bracelets – they looked fantastic, though, their shy personalities initially made them want to take all their decorations off. That simply wasn’t an option, if they wanted free drinks, they were going to wear the hats – end of story.

So they wore the hats.

I must say, I was very impressed. As a light-weight if I have three drinks, odds are I’m not going to be able to function. But bar after bar, drink after drink – they seemed fine. Alleschea and I were highly disappointed, “We’re failing!” we ranted.

Until, the eighth drink.

From that point on I watched in bewilderment as the twins went through the various phases of drunkenness in unison. It was a miraculous sight. That eighth shot brought them to stage one, denial. They were fine, hardly feeling it, don’t see what the big fuss is all about. Sure they barely sense their own drunkenness, but from an outside perspective, their mannerisms all pointed to intoxicated.

After the ninth drink, they lost their filters. Suddenly, homophobic and racists slurs were being spun out of their mouth like they lived deep within the Bible belt. An outsider would have assumed the worst of them, defiantly never would have guessed the Britney herself is Bi, as their mouths continued to offend all who did not know them. Alleschea and I laughed, almost stunned by this sudden switch in behavior.

Their final drink, number eleven, sent them straight for the bathroom.

I felt like I was in a scene from a nineties teen movie. Britney throwing up in one stall, as Dawn throws up in the other. The bathroom smelled terrible, I could hardly tolerate the odor of vomit floating around the room. After awhile the spewing stopped (at the same time), and Dawn kicked her foot out of the stall. Poor girl, she missed the toilet, her shoe and calf were covered in regurgitated beverages. I was sympathetic, but not about to help clean up.

Eventually they were both ready to exit the stalls. They locked eyes on each other, and immediately Dawn collapsed on the floor, like a child pouting in timeout. Britney ran back into the stall and spent several minutes failing to throw up. I left them like that, unable to handle the stench.

I found Alleschea who had been watching the fries we ordered this whole time.

“I can’t deal with that smell anymore. Dawn’s fallen on the floor and Britney’s still in the stall,” I said.

“I know, it’s terrible. I’ll go check on them,” she said.

She was gone for all of three minutes when she came out and told me, “We’re being kicked out, someone complained.”

I grabbed the fries (but left the basket – I have manners), and we shuffled them out the door. Originally the plan was to escort our drunken twins to the car, quickly it became apparent that they wouldn’t be able to handle a ten minute car drive as walking sent Britney in the wrong direction. That girl is a drifter, I’ve never seen someone veer to the left so intensely when trying to walk in a straight line, it was like trying to control a distracted puppy. Dawn was just fumbling around and much easier to manage. So we led them to the dock by the river.

On the boardwalk they collapsed on the ground once more, and said what every belligerently drunk person says, “How did I get so drunk?” Um, I’m going to go with eleven drinks including a double long island that you had – but hey, I’m just guessing. Eventually they stood up and leaned over the edge toward the river.

I got to offer tips I never thought I would teach somebody – how to make yourself throw up in a, “there’s too much alcohol in my system,” situation.

“Just go back a centimeter,” I said. Of course, the booze ridden twins were initially confused. “If you want to make yourself throw up the alcohol, where ever your finger is hovering to make you dry heave – go back a centimeter.” It worked like a charm, and finally we were able to take them back to the car.

And so concludes my fifth 21 run (I have five more to go). The drunken twin connection is a thing, and if you ever get the chance to witness it – prepare to be stunned with amazement.

Of Unwanted Stories

Friends TV Show

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I love being told stories. I’m a book-on-tape junkie. If you’ve already told me an awesome story, I’ll happily listen to it another 500 times. I prefer to laugh, but I appreciate a well told tear-jerker or coming-of-age tale. But honestly, there’s one story that I never want to hear – sadly, I’m told it quite often. And that is the ever-unfortunately-classic, check out how much I drank last night, saga. 

I can see it in their eyes – a dull longing. They want to brag, about what they can’t quite remember, but boy do they ever want to tell me about it. And do I ever not want to listen. Cause you see, I don’t care. There’s not much more that I can say, I simply couldn’t care less about how much you drank last night.

But I downed 12 shots of tequila, 2 long islands, and … – yeah, I still don’t care. Belligerency is not cool, it’s annoying … and sloppy.

It’s not interesting to me how much liqueur they drank. It’s even less interesting that they can’t remember everything that happened. Frankly, that’s not even a story. A good story needs something interesting like characters, plot, controversy, etc. And any story, at minimum, requires some sort of action.

Now if they went on an impromptu adventure, found themselves hitch-hiking with a fellow named Hank, and ended up having to sell blood in order to afford a bus ticket home – that would be a good story regardless of sobriety. Hell, it’d be more interesting if the entire story was a detailed account of how they made a PB&J for lunch.

If someone’s going to brag about their alcohol intake then they better have something more to back it up. Did they meet someone? Dance? Ask a police officer for a piggyback ride? Hijack a kayak? Fall asleep? Get in a fight? – Did anything else happen that I should be interested in hearing about? If the answer is no, don’t tell me the damn story. It’s not a story. It’s a list which was intended for bragging rights.

I don’t care.

Of How to Start the Party

Me Dancing

Time to get my dance on.

I’ve been going out dancing since I was eighteen. At first I was awkward (as many are), unsure of how to move my body to music (had no personal style), and didn’t feel confident dancing alone (finding a grinding buddy was a must).

Quickly I learned how to shimmy my ass off and move around the floor. My greatest discovery being that I don’t have much of a butt, thus trying to shake it like the other girls made me look plain weird. Isolating the torso to this day is my strength. Through the basic motion of moving my ribs from side to side I am able to create the illusion of having hips like Shakira. People say I appear sexy and creative when I dance, in reality I’m doing six moves on repeat.

Thanks to my five-year background maneuvering around the club scene, I am highly practiced at starting the party. With the exception of my dancing buddies, most my friends have only ever heard me go on and on about my extreme dance obsession: Blues, swing, Scottish Country, square, clubbing, etc. It’s a wonder they even put up with my jabber. So when we I went out with my non-dance friends for a farewell bash, they were all shocked and amazed by how quickly I can fill a dance floor (two different clubs, both nearly empty, it was crowded within five minutes – not that I’m bragging…).

And right now, I’m gonna tell you the secret.

The key to starting the party is patience. I don’t just mean waiting for people to start moving. I mean waiting for the right song. A song that is popular and everybody seems to love, aka something from the Top 40’s list. Also, 90s hits are always safe choice, especially if the song is hip hop, I cannot stress that enough. Clubrats love 90s night.

Next is confidence. Whether you are a good dancer or not, you have to own it. If you’re shy you probably don’t believe me, but there is something equally attractive about someone who throws themselves into their moves (even if they are far from stellar) as the person who is wickedly talented in the dance department. The reason is because of confidence, people don’t care if you are good, they care if you look like fun to hang out with.

The last part takes practice – come across as appealing. Balance being sexy with dorky. Seductive with quirky. Vixen with wacky. You want people to feel gravitated towards you and yet comfortable to dance near you. If you’re too good, too sexy, then people will tend to shy away in fear of your talent – except for a few creepers that may try to hit on you. Mixing the playful side of your personality might mean busting out the sprinkler or pulling a friend who is an average dancer onto the floor with you.  My go to is hopping. Yup, hopping. In between torso twirls I’ll bop about on my toes with my arms above my head.

If all else fails do the macarena – I’m serious, you can do the macarena to any pop/hip-hop song ever made. Just wait for the bridge or chorus with an 8-count beat.

Let’s recap: remember patience, remain confident (they can sense fear), and balance your sexy self with your playfulness.

Oh, I almost forgot, it also helps to use the space around you. Try not to stand in one spot the whole time.

End of lesson. You are now educated with the basic rules for adequately starting the party. After a little practice you won’t even realize you’re doing these things, until that fateful day when a less skilled friend points out your talent.

Me Dancing With Arms Up

Put your hands in the air, wave them like you just don’t care! Hey! Ho! Hey! Ho!

Of a Light-Weight’s Night Out

It is no surprise that I’m a mega light-weight when it comes to consuming alcoholic beverages. I mean, just look at me …

Me on a Painter Scaffolding

… I’m a skinny chick who has a very small appetite ninety percent of the time.

On a typical night out I need not bring more than $15 (unless there’s cover – tip to future/current club goers ALWAYS try to avoid paying cover, if possible). $15 will pay for two shots and two drinks if the drinks are cheap. One drink and a shot if the bars a bit more spendy.

I’m almost always the first one who is pleasantly drunk, two drinks or shots, and I’m good to go. I’m a happy drunk – very giggly, bubbly, and will probably (nay will!) want to dance and/or talk about sex at some point in the evening. I’m told I’m a cute drunk, of course, being me I can’t confirm this without bias, I’ll just trust my buddies and their statements about my behavior.

I feel sorry for non-light-weights. They have to spend much more money than I do to reach the same level of happy.

Often I get teased about how much of a light-weight I am, they laugh because one or two beverages will be all I drink for the night. They complain that I can’t “keep up”. And then thank me for being the sober one at the end of the night. Funny how the tune changes when I’m now the one that can get the gang home.

Think of it this way. If I were to order four or five sodas at dinner most people would be shocked or appalled. For that’s a lot of soda. It’s a lot of drinks in general.

Unless you’re buying rounds of shots, three or four cocktails is a lot of cocktails. Just based off amount of liquid ingested alone.

If I REALLY wanted to I could drink more, but I don’t enjoy getting past the happy giddy stage of alcohol consumption. I don’t like stumbling down stairs. I don’t like feeling nauseous. I don’t like having no control over my body. I don’t like not being able to think properly. I don’t like being too drunk. I don’t like waking up and thinking why did I do that? I don’t function well when I drink more than my normal, unlike some people I know. I don’t like going to bed drunk. I don’t like forcing my friends to play mother and take care of me. And I DO like being sober (or close too) when I go home. Unfortunately, I do sometimes cross into the less fun drunk zone.

So ya see, I’m a light-weight through and through, and I’m just fine with that. I like my friends, and I like me. I don’t need to drink more to improve my self-esteem or confidence, not even to make the evening more enjoyable.

I can start the party completely sober, don’t believe me? If you’re out and about in Bellingham and the club is hopping, look for a curly brown-haired girl in a dress (most likely accompanied by a curly blond-haired girl in a mini skirt or skinny jeans). We’ll be there!

Of Sex on the Dance Floor

Couple at a night club

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Contrary to popular belief, the dance floor is not a place for love-making. Now, I’m aware that most people who go out at night on the weekends are either actively or unconsciously hoping to meet that special someone. Someone amazing and attractive, ideally someone wealthy, heading somewhere in life, and/or an outstanding dancer. Does this mean that you should throw your lower bits at them in order to gain attention? Negative, keep that to yourself.

Thankfully (for the most part) people are semi-subtle about their desires, or at the very least not perverse, and remain respectful to other human beings.

Then there’s those that make me want to gag.

Because I always end up at straight clubs I’m literally there to dance, drink, and be merry – I don’t plan or even try to meet ladies, not that I wouldn’t like to, it’s just not really much of an option unless I want to go out alone or drive to Seattle. So when I see the girls walk in with their tight TIGHT mini skirts, five-inch heels, and drinking their blue drinks I can’t help but think (and usually say) a whore’s arrived. Shallow and judgmental? probably. Natural and reasonable response? I think so. These are the desperate ladies trying to use their sexuality to attract men in the way that women are drawn to shiny objects.

Last Saturday I was out with Erin, we were starting the party – as usual. When I looked up I saw a girl in high heels and a purple mini dress that was riding up past crotch level and her dress was starting to slide down. She was grinding on a guy who was rubbing her nipples over her dress. She seemed to take no notice on how fucking creepy that was. Eventually she got pulled away by someone and the nipple rubbing guy looked PISSED and sat down staring at the dancing people. I swear he was glaring at the dance floor from that moment until I left for a different club. I was honestly fearful of what he was capable of.

It’s normal to see a groping couple on the floor, a slutty desperate drunk chick walking around, and an aggressive male trying to get some ass – but not to that extent.

So I repeat, please save your sexy-time for your bedroom – or at least the bathroom stall.

Boo You Whore

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Of A Top Hat

In my nonfiction class my professor gave us an in-class prompt to write about an article of clothing. I this amused me so I shall transcribe it here. It’s nothing spectacular but amusing nonetheless.

Top Hat

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My Top Hat

So much more than a top hat. It was a cheap Goodwill top hat. A top hat that had a sticker inside it proclaiming “Not appropriate for those 14 and under.”

It was black. It was plastic with a low quality ribbon around the base. The brim curled up an inch. The flat top of the hat was a few inches shorter than the legit one’s you see in period films.

It was amazing.

Yes I still have it. No I haven’t worn it since that night two Halloween’s ago.

Except for when friends come over and decide it must come out of hibernation. Particularly my friend Nicole. She’ll put it on and it comes to life. It becomes the star of the show – surprisingly, an excellent dancer.

When I wore it those years ago my costume was undetermined. Some said I was a dancer, others presumed vaudeville act, and some thought sexy business woman. All in all that Halloween was a dud. With the exception of a brief dance party at the Christian frat in Seattle, where Nicole got so plastered that she passed out and a half-naked Native American took care of her. We later found her lying in the hallway with a folding table as a blanket.

But my hat was a hit. As I said, it stole the spotlight.

After all, it’s a great dance partner.