BIRDS OF PHOENIX

October 26, 2003

Me: Hh, hello.
Everyone: Hi!
Me: Um, hi. My name is Lonnie, and I have a confession to make… I’m a lightweight.
Everyone: (gasp)
Me: I know, I know. I don’t want to be, but I can’t help it. That’s why I came here. I thought that if I came to this meeting…this bar. I’d be able to overcome my need to only have one beer. Why should I only have one when it takes most people eight to feel what I feel after just half a bottle? Why should I spend four dollars when everyone else spends fourty?
Everyone: …thank you for coming…wow…that’s what we’re here for…who farted?…sshhh, let him talk…
Me: Um, thanks. Last night I was at uh, a party, a, huh huh Halloween party. And I looked good, I was wearing this vintage gray shirt with black sleeves and collar…

And I went to the beer draft booth and asked for a beer. What they gave me was a Texaco sized fountain drink with a small lake of Budlight inside. Needless to say, I polished off my small lake pretty quickly, I think it only took me four hours. It was a bit cumbersome on the dance floor, but it gave me the opportunity to look around and observe my surroundings.

With a beer that took two hands to hold, I wasn’t able to show off my kick ass dancing skills. I usually pick six or seven moves that meet the mood of the music, put it on random repeat then coast through the night "accidentally" bumping into people to get names and numbers.

But then again, it isn’t always the same ol’ thang. This was pretty big Halloween party at the Ice House, downtown. What I like about Phoenix is that there are many personalities and people that make each night a little bit different.

For instance, there’s that methuselah with the tambourine who never remembers to wear a shirt and deoderant. There’s the middle aged white dude with no rhythm who wears those damn bright white shoes and black pants to every club and for every occasion. Notice his trademarked hop that doesn’t vary in altitude or character.

Then there’s that cat that’s always walking around at FLEX. It’s like you’re minding your own business sucking off this hot guy with ten abs near the hot tub, when Miss Thang just walks on by giving you the disapproving "shit, that ain’t no deep throat" look. She’s like that English teacher who never liked you and gave you the same disapproving arched eyebrow when you turned in that Frida Kahlo paper you worked so hard to refine in ninth grade. That Bitch.

Finally, there’s the really prepared guy. He’s the guy that—when you finally get his number after an hour-long courtship of long stares from across the room—he hands you his business card! The fucker doesn’t even hide the fact that he’s a total whore. He wrote his number down with his "name" that changes depending on the bar he’s in so he can remember where you met him. What happened to the fun journey of holding hands or pulling him by the belt buckle to every bar opening looking for a pen and a clean napkin? I mean come on, why ruin the game of being demure and coy by already admitting that you're gonna shout "OH, GOD! POUND ME HARDER, MUTHAFUCKER" when I take you home?