Motley Crue had better watch out. I am all over their dirt.
Friday night was ridiculous, as Joana can attest to.
It started with a perfectly innocent dinner in a fabulous West Village hideaway. One of the last great neighborhood corner bistros where you can smoke at your table. And so we did over a leisurely 3 hour dinner with my rommmate T. and my friend A. We treated him to his birthday dinner, wined and dined like it was my job. Bottles of Cote 'd Rhone (my choice), hors d'oveures of succulent escargot and entrees of Tuna au poivre, rack of lamb and flank steak. Rich desserts and after dinner drinks of port (for the boy), sambuka (for the roommate) and champagne (for the Partygirl, duh).
I like to live well. And I do. Dinner had the usual interruptions...me seeing two of my favorite boys chatting on the corner and running out of the restaurant, linen napkin in hand, for tight hugs and Euro air kisses (both cheeks - ALWAYS).
After dinner we met newworkfriend and her cousin with his girlfriend in from Leeds (and Joana) at one of my favorite swanky East Village haunts. The DJ whipped up some perfect 70's funk with and infusion of jazz and some of the U.K.'s hot new imports as we got our drink on and before the night was through, we cleared a small area in the even smaller bar and kicked it up with the chocolate beefcake DJ, swiveling our hips around and around and bumping from one to the next.
Some of NYC's hottest talent of gay pride, also known as my boyz, showed up late and kicked it up just before we got kicked out of said swanky bar.
We headed to my other favorite swanky East Village spot. The one where the Diaryland club convenes, often. The one where I had my fabulous first-and-last date with the writer. Ha! I bet you forgot about him! Well, he comes back into the picture. Hold on.
We lose some of the boys to cruising and continue onward. We enter my home away from home and for once the punk owner decides to acknowledge me. We all cozy up to the bar and he decides to profess his love for me to the assembled group. That, however, was just the calm before the storm.
Because he then proceeded to get into my make-out session a month of so ago with the writer. "You were too much for that guy, you're not still with him are you?" Nope. I can't believe he's bringing this up now, after I've seen him since then and I tell him so but he tells me he's been saving it.
Nice. So why didn't he save me the trouble and warn me the night of the date?
"I didn't want to tell you then, because I wanted to see how it played out, but you were too much for that guy,"he says. "What does THAT mean," I ask him. "HE was the aggressor, not me," I mentioned a little defensively.
"Oh, I KNOW that," the bar owner says. "I saw the whole thing. You were GREAT." Now the group is rapt. "WHAT?!?," I shriek. "Yeah, it was like porn. In a good way. In a GREAT way," he says.
In my defense, I reiterate," I didn't start it!" He says he knows, "but you were too much for him." Holds up his pinky to me, "am I wrong?" I'm not talkin'. "Two and half minutes, right? Right." I'd like to see my lawyer.
"You were too much for that guy," he says again.
"What does that MEAN, anyway," I ask?
"That guy was half a fag and you are all woman," he tells me. " A guy like that can't handle a girl like you. You need a man."
Good grief.
"Seriously, you know I love you. You are one of my favorite people." (I am?? You always give me a hard time and grunt at me when I am friendly, but umm, okay, I guess?) Then he takes my hand and says seriously, "That guy was not for you." *snort*
Four pitchers of sangria later, with A. now telling me "You know how much I love you, right? I mean, I LOVE YOU. You are my real friend. I would do anything for you." - we drag our sorry asses out into the night and make an attempt to get home. I find A. at the corner deli buying dozens of long stemmed pink roses for T. and I. The time would be about 5am. I think.
We find a taxi and an all out rose petal war erupts. A. is shoving them down our bras (even Joana, in the front seat minding her own business, was attacked as A. professed his love to her), I am shoving them in his jeans pockets and down his socks as T. is shoving them down his shirt. Feel the love.
We dropped Joana off at her place, or rather, she escaped for her life, and we headed to my apartment for late-night. This is where it gets a little fuzzy. Late-night dance party ensues as the sun comes up. I take my shoes off and jump in the puddles on my terrace as A. re-enacts the Janet Jackson "Pleasure Principle" chair manuever on our plastic porch furniture.
He tries to make me do the move and I resist because: 1) I am barefoot, 2)my feet are wet, 3) it's 6 am and the sun is rising and I've been drinking for 10 hours and 4) I know my limitations. Even while drunk. I refuse again. A screaming match ensues. To end the debate, I grab the chair in a fit of I-don't-know-what and I throw it with all of my might against the brick wall of my terrace which is about 10 floors above a major avenue.
As plastic propelled with my might crashed against brick and rock 'n roll blasted through my speakers saluting the sun while it rose aginst our early morning, drunken efforts to suppress it and allow our vices reign while cloaked in the blackness of the night, a funny thing happened:
I liked it. I liked breaking shit.
I'm not a violent person. I hate to fight. I'm what psychologists call an "internalizer." I hate this or I hate that but I hate the confrontation even more so that I absorb the hatred and bury it within me.
So here I am, out of my mind, pushed, and I just trashed this chair like Nikki Sixx at the Hyatt. And I liked it. So I picked up another chair and did it again. And I let out this guttereal scream with my fist in the air.
And then I was tired, so I went to bed.
PS - Yes, that was me you saw in the clip of #94 from VH-1's "Top 100 Shocking Moments in Rock." It's been confirmed by those who know me well. I still haven't seen it. Not thinking I ever *want* to see it...
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