A weekend (in four parts)

I tend not to write about my actual daily life here because, well, my parents barely ask about it, so I can only conclude others care even less. But this weekend was fun and memorable, if only for the fact that each day seemed to revolve around a specific theme (or so I've imagined).

Thursday (foreigners).

After a long day of doing nothing (see: unemployment), I hear my roommate O. enter the apartment and almost immediately call my name. As soon as I open my door, he exclaims, "Let's go!" Since he is a raging alcoholic, it didn't take me long to figure out that the word "drink" was implied at the end of that sentence. Also the words "a lot." As my college roommates know, I tend to prevaricate a little in these situations, and inevitably mumble something about work or an impossibly early meeting the next day, but in this case, I actually had work to do (I know, I'm unemployed, but work still does happen). I managed to stall O. with a promise that I'd join later. Which ended up being true.

When I did meet up with him, near the soul-sucking abyss that is Times Square, he had four French girls in tow. In most cases, I don't do well in larger group settings, and six is about my limit, but French girls are almost invariably intrigued by my halfsiness. We ended up having dinner, and in typical Gallic fashion, we ended up having one long conversation laden with sexual jokes and innuendo, and stayed at least forty-five minutes past paying our bill. By the time we made it to an actual bar though, three of the girls had left, completely flipping the two-to-one ratio. O. took us to a urine-soaked dive bar, mostly for the purpose of playing darts. The one female still with us, who I must admit, is kind of adorable (especially when one out of every three darts she throws makes it to the wall or, somehow, sticks directly into the floor - she gets a little flustered), had to put up with my alternating encouragement and trash-talking (it can get annoying), but she probably got a bit of a laugh when a slightly drunken half-Russian girl joined my team and promptly corrected my form. I still stunk up the joint. Which - did I mention? - already smelled pretty bad.

Friday (women in bars).

Despite the previous evening, I haven't been going out in a while, due in no small part to my joblessness and his close cousin, poverty. So I sucked it up and met up with some friends down in the village. Despite B.'s claims (he was there ahead of us), the Blind Tiger was not full of "what's-up girls," though I'm not really sure what those are. Nonetheless, he did amuse everyone with his stories about an insane Australian buddy of his who throws beer cans at people's heads and is "really good at strippers."

When we moved to another nearby spot (whose name I have no recollection of) though, the evening got a little more interesting. And by interesting, I mean irreversibly fucked-up. Though we arrived as a group of five guys and only one girl, most of the bar was still noticeably female, but I was still a bit surprised when a very attractive blonde stared me down (and I mean this literally: she unblinkingly looked at me for at least ten seconds, made me feel sweaty, and neither said nor did anything else in that timespan) and motioned for me to approach her. In my experience, this scenario only happens in movies or in my very active imagination, although none of those ever had the girl asking me my age. I guess 26 was a disappointing answer, as she claimed she was hoping I was at least 30 (seriously, did you even look at my face? I could wander the hallways of most high schools, and teachers would tell me to get my ass to class). Though I tried to convince her I was a fun and mature dude (lies!), she maintained that because of my age and inferred immaturity, I could never be anything more than a "bar buddy." Touché. I tried to help T.'s cause as he moved over, claiming that he was 28, but he wasn't ready for it and immediately divulged his true age. Bummer.

As I moved back to the bar, another blonde sitting alone gave me the eye. Usually, I don't notice these things, but she made it very obvious. Like, if you so much as offer to buy me a drink and make a forced compliment about my shoes, I will have unprotected sex with you. Now at this point, I was a little freaked out, half expecting Ashton to pop out from behind the bar and laugh that annoying laugh at me from underneath his trucker hat. Quickly averting my eyes while wondering what the hell was going on, I turned back to my friends and tried to engage in coversation. No fewer than five minutes later, yet another tall blonde (and everyone knows how I feel about taller women) walks over to T. and I, asking to use the seat at the bar we were backed up against. Too shocked to laugh at the fact that there was only one chair available and her friend would have to remain standing, I began feeling unusually nervous and mentally retraced my steps to determine the cause of all this chaos. Showered? About 15 hours ago. Combed my hair? Not really. Irresistably manly cologne? Bottle from high school's still sitting in my medicine cabinet, half-full. Fancy threads? If a $10 t-shirt and track jacket qualify, sure. Incredibly smooth game? Uh, no. So I couldn't really function, even as our newly seated friend forced some conversation my way. Though she clearly believed she was hotter than she actually was (and she was hot, which means she probably literally thinks her poop doesn't smell, but this quality is still unattractive), we never got past the fact that we both have been to a Wrens show and have, at one point in time, lived in the faux-suburb that is the NW. Her interest never materialized, but that was the end of my dalliances (if you can call them that) for the evening; at least order was restored to the world. As most of my friends paired off with a gaggle of females they'd been texting throughout the evening, I made a beeline for the 1 train and turned my iPod on.

I'll round out the events in my next post.