The last thing I remember was Renee asking what kind of Ramen I wanted: sweet and sour something or chicken something surprise. I woke five hours later at 11:30 wondering if I should call in to work, or just try to mosey in without being noticed.
I did neither, instead opting for sitting on the floor naked and staring at a scuff and Nicci’s art on the wall. Clothing, caffeine, and the car were too much to think about.
The night before, we’d spent some time with a much-changed Danielle who implored us to never waste a moment, so we wasted none. After Danielle went home, Roy, Renee, and I headed for Lotus Lounge. The club does suck, but there was no cover, $1 drinks, and good music. Sandra and Gearmo were still there. I’d originally made plans to hang out with them that night. I also saw Brandon, Kat, Dana, Nicole, and Josh there. Photocopy your gametes for Josh!
Intent on not wasting any moments, Gearmo drove aimlessly around down town trying to find where I’d parked. I’m pretty sure we passed my car twice before swinging around the block once more. We caravanned back to 1960 (Houston’s party mecca since 1997!), and stopped at the convenience store for more smokes. I think we killed three packs that night.
After driving the twenty minute drive toward sobriety down I45, Roy decided I wasn’t able to drive the two blocks back to their apartment. I thanked him for his boneheaded sense of safety and gave him the keys. For future notice, if you think I should’nt drive, suggest so before I drive at high rates of speed down a busy interstate.
Back at their apartment we drank more, gossipped, and talked about all kinds of things until dawn came. I haven’t seen dawn in a long time. I think Renee and I toasted my seeing dawn. Woot.
Gearmo and Sandra headed home around four where they left a bizarre message on my voice mail. Sandra’s babbling about their gnomish hostage sounded like an inebriated alien dialing in from Alpha Centauri.
The gnome in question, a bad ass specimen of gnomish temperature-itude has a long, tall slender hat equipped with a thermometer used for inserting into your ass to take accurate body temperatures. The second gnome freed during the daring daylight attack on the R complex was a small, red-hatted fellow who seems very genial. His first request after being freed was for some enchiladas. He said he hadn’t had any mexican food for the entirety of his imprisonment.
The double gnome dispursement will go down in history. Someday, I hope to be like the little tailor, or Gearmo’s mom, and I’ll be able to say “seven with one blow!” Fear me foul gnome slavers.
Last night, I think I was a zombie. I had no energy. I talked to Nitekry for a bit, as well as Tony and Liz. I did meet several new faces, but I was lacking the people power points to socialize. Likewise, I am mentally lacking now. I do not think I could be more apathetic.
We did not waste any moments Wednesday night, but we wasted a lot on Thursday. I do not think any of us went to work. Renee makes good amaretto sours.
Tuesday night was about moments, too. While working at Diedrich’s, I ran across Jade and her friend Holly (and a few other friends of theirs). I hung out with Jade for a bit, walked down to Randall’s and back, grabbed some grub from Taco Cabana, and then hung out at Catbird’s. I had rum and coke and bought a dozen bad ass pork tamales.
When he hawked the tamales, I asked what kind he had. He said he had beef, chicken, and pork. Jade, the vegetarian, said something sarcastic along the lines of “what choices…” I bought the pork because the best tamales are always pork tamales.
I generally do not purchase chicken or pork cooked by other people. Popeye’s Chicken is one of the few exceptions. And I do not eat that much red meat either. Shrimp is awesome. Fish is only good if cooked well, but most people and places do not cook it well.
Last year some time, a friend of Roy’s, some ephemeral ballet dancer and dedicated renny named Jen was trying to get Roy and I a DJing gig at this new bar/club where she was cocktailing. The short-lived establishment located on Richmond called itself the Purple Rooster. It isn’t hard to make the cognitive leap from Purple Rooster to Purple Cock. I spent a couple of evenings wondering how we would promote an 80s night at the Purple Cock. Is that something you tell your friends? ‘Come see me DJ. Look for the giant purple cock on Richmond.’
Fortunately, I never had to have those conversations. The deal fell apart when the one manager accused the other manager of cheating on him with one of the door men and chased the offending manager around the bar and out the door with a steak knife. The nightspot closed soon after.
I am moving soon. Imminently.