Love Me Bender

(April 20, 2002)

Last night's was a simple plan. Go see Shaun Wolf Wortis and Asa Brebner at the Abbey, then head over to the Middle East to catch Cracktorch and Scissorfight. Easy, right?

Arriving too early at the Abbey, I hung around talking to Door Guy Ben, who, when I told him I was a Noise writer, scowled that The Noise roasted his band in a CD review. "Who reviewed it?" I asked. "Some guy named K." It's commonly said around here that K doesn't like anything, but before Ben could finish telling me about how he went back to read all of K's reviews to see what he liked and disliked, some Portuguese guy came in. Maybe fifty, little, balding with cheap tinted wire-rim glasses. He started talking to Ben in seriously broken English, either about painting or dancing. "Dance? Dancing?" Ben queried, brow crinkled in concentration. "I'm sorry, I don't get what you're..." Portuguese guy hitched up his starched dark blue jeans (lots of cuff, of course) and tried various means of gesturing and charade-playing. Then they both looked at me as if I had just ripped off my jacket to reveal my Day-Glo "Kiss Me I Speak Portuguese" T-shirt.

"Hey, I can only say one thing in Portuguese. And that's 'Eu nao falo Portugu�s.'" Though that of course means 'I don't speak Portuguese,' "OHHH," the guy said and embarked on a long and seemingly complicated discourse. In Portuguese.

"Dude," I reiterated holding up my hand in the universal-symbol-for-stop, "Eu nao falo Portugu�s!" The problem, I think, because this isn't the first time this has happened, is that my pronunciation of that presumably useful phrase is too good. I worked hard on that one. In college. There were reasons.

I didn't think any of the other Portuguese words I know would have been useful at that particular point in time. Especially since the guy was now gyrating, pointing at me, and saying, "You? Dance? You?" Good lord. I can say underwear, matches, breasts, thank you, and I used to be able to say 'No, I'm here with my friend," but I forgot. Haven't needed that in awhile. I walked away to examine in great detail all the new photos and stuff they put on the walls at the Abbey. When the club started filling I thankfully had peeps to talk to and Portuguese Guy sulked in a corner.

But this all really has nothing to do with the story. The point is, eventually Wolf and the band started playing, were fucking fantastic, and then there was a shot of Tequila.

And then there was another one.

There was definitely at least one more.

Somewhere in there Asa started playing and was also good. I know I met up with Al, who is a friend and neighbor, and Chilly Kurtz who I haven't seen in a million years. I think I talked to Andrea Gillis. I think my face hurt from laughing. I'm pretty sure Chilly said she had a plus-one for the Middle East and did I want it. I think.

You know, all I'm really sure about is the Tequila.

I clearly recall that I was listening to Wolf telling me something about something. And that all of a sudden I felt like if I didn't leave immediately I would puke all over him. I may have said "Okay dude I gotta go." Or else I just turned around and walked out the door. "Hm," I said to myself as I picked my way down the street toward home, "Self? You know what? People who don't drink a lot shouldn't have three Tequilas in one night. Let's review all the reasons why..."

In the two-minute walk I kept trying to summon my logical brain (which sadly seemed to have taken the night off or it'd have said "No thanks" to that last Tequila) to look for inoffensive places to puke, just in case. Garbage cans, I figured, or anything like that. But I reached my door without rowlfing in anyone's recycle bin. I sunk down onto the stoop. Stayed there for what must have been about fifteen minutes.

In case I wasn't already fully cognizant of the fact that I'd done something really stupid? I surely realized it when I looked up and focused my gaze on the doorbell and entertained the thought, "If I could reach that, Hub could come outside and get me. If only I had something to poke it with."

But I made it inside on my own steam, puked, and took a bath. Hub came in and started talking to me. See, I tried the bath thing the last time I consumed excess alcohol. Which was four months ago at Mardi Gras, another Wolf Wortis event if anyone's keeping track of the trend here. Though it doesn't do anything to sober me up, the steam and hot water do make me feel better. But Hub thinks I'm going to pass out and drown in the tub, so he talks to me and makes sure I'm still alive. Isn't he the best?

So. Out of the tub, wrapped in a big bath towel, I went to lay down in bed. Hub gave me a piece of bread and some aspirin and water. It was only about midnight. I just needed to lay there "for a little while."

I woke up at 9:30 this morning, the towel all bunched around my head and vaguely wondering what happened to the bread.

"You passed out clutching it. I pried it from your fingers."

"Thank you, baby."

"Here's some coffee."

He really is the best.