Friday, June 8, 2012
canadian? more like canadi-can’t.
there are some nights that escalate so quickly, you’re not even quite sure the events that transpired were in fact real life. while my intentions are typically to avoid going from 0 to 60, i can’t say that i’m mad when it happens. that is, until someone ends up in bed with a canadian.
she got out of there as quickly as her hangover would allow, never making the mistake of overlooking screening her suitor’s citizenship again.
it seems to be an ongoing trend among my friends as of late to end up at a place called hi-fi. those of you who are lucky enough to live in the amazing city of San Francisco can empathize that a night concluding at the hi-est of fi-s can only mean one thing: blackout city. not visiting the township. not circling the burbs. but full on residency. and as much as we all collectively curse the inception of that establishment, with the exception of my friend steve, we are drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
hi-fi is best known for the following:
· marina douche-bag clientele: “yo bro, check out my popped collar, bro. i’m too hot to handle with my sunglasses on inside, bro.”
· wannabe DJs that think spinning top 40 hits makes them dirty beats.
· the beyond sweaty dance floor, where 8th grade freak-dancing makes a comeback,
· and last, but definitely not least, the sloppy make-out.
this particular night, one of us happened to be guilty of encompassing all of the above. and her name, for the sake of this story, is phoebe.
somehow, driven by a power greater than her, phoebe was convinced to meet up with her pals at hi-fi; of course, steve being one of them (i swear that guy lives there). already inebriated enough to ignore her lack of judgment, phoebe agreed to take a shot that she’s almost positive was hot pink. then, double-fisting their beer, phoebe and company pushed through the slop-tastic crowd and made their way to the dance floor. hi-fi definitely resembles somewhat of a bermuda triangle: time, judgment and dignity seem to completely disappear. and in pure hi-fi fashion, whilst phoebe was on the dance floor feeling oh-so-sexy, a boy, clad in a fancy suit, grabbed phoebe by the hands and began to boogie.
phoebe’s inner-monologue at this moment, i can only assume, went a little something like this:
OK. he’s cute, tall, and wearing a suit. who goes out in a suit on a friday night? a little weird. oh, now he’s spinning me around. that’s kind of fun. and now we’re making out. alright, i’ll go with it. where did this guy come from? OUCH, he just bit my lip. that’s weird. and yet, i’m still making out with him. is he wearing a suit? oh shit, last call. damnit, don’t turn on the lights! i still need to chug my beer. OMG, i’m so sweaty. wait, stop trying to hold my hand, i/m chugging my beer! ok, beer is done, now you can escort me out of the bar. i should probably tell Steve i’m leaving, in case this kid tries to kidnap me, or something.
and then they were in a cab, headed to his place. it was at this point phoebe realized she didn’t even know the kid’s name. “do you have a name?” she asks as he pays the cab. of course, the answer was yes, but that’s neither here nor there. it’s not like phoebe remembers anyways. what she does remember, was a) pretending to be a cougar, in spite of the fact this kid was her age (“OMG, you’re only 25. you’re SOOOO young!”), and b) riding an elevator. an elevator that opened up into his home. who doesn’t love a baller in a suit with a penthouse? i know phoebe doesn’t.
oh, it didn’t end there. apparently the castle that phoebe had stumbled upon with this stranger in a suit had rooftop access overlooking the entire city. so, obviously, phoebe made out with him on the roof… topless.
the next morning, fully equipped with a tequila and hot pink drink hangover, phoebe peeled open her eyeballs, and rolled over to see a half naked sleeping man (what happened to the suit?) and… a canadian passport.
needless to say, that was all it took for her to grab her clothes and try to bolt, without first fighting off the canadian for some morning playtime.