Brain to Tequila: You're my Frenemy.

Ah, Cinco de Mayo. The holiday that only the west coast of the United States seems to celebrate. In Los Angeles, the fervor for the ancient political event is even hotter. This of course being due to the fact that California was at one point part of what is today Mexico (it was controlled by Spain at the time that it was part of California, but whatevs). Of course with all the glory of many things American, those of us that were in no way connected or native to Mexico celebrate the fuck out of Cinco de Mayo. Why? Because we all have one thing in common, no matter our creed, sexuality, race or preference for Splenda or Aspartame: we love booze.

Jab and I set forth on our Cinco de Mayo experience eastward to Park La Brea. Those of you from Los Angeles will know that Park La Brea is full of polished genetically-capitalized assholes (read: rich people). In fact, I believe that The Hills was filmed there. Now you all know what I am talking about.

We snuck in and made our way to the apartment at which we were to meet Jab's producer. Upon finding a semi-empty apartment occupied by a quaint physical mockery of Sarah Silverman and several off the producer, Kyle's, cronies. They were already drunk which meant we had to catch up.


Despite the lack of furniture, there was a surprising abundance of random weed brownies scattered in styrene containers about the apartment. While beer is not of interest to me, I helped myself to a large bite of a brownie while it's possible owner's back was turned. I'm so sneaky.

We took off on foot to the bar, El Coyote in Beverly Hills. As expected, the bar was packed with whiteness. So white it nearly blinded me. We were handed Cuervo branded shot glasses on lanyards and flashing Cuervo medallions on Mardi Gras beads. That puts the "ass" in "I need to assassinate someone".

Kyle began buying drinks. I eagerly put a shot of Patron in my already potent Margarita. Getting drunk fast in this situation was an absolute necessity. It was hot, crowded, and smelled like the New Orleans Superdome.

Just as I had worked my way through my first drink (with double the power), the table next to us was one half of a whole lot of ruckus. The other half was a member of our party: some personal trainer named Joe.

I sat in a chair in between both of them, standing over me yelling.

"What the fuck's the problem?" I yelled at them. I have no tolerance for such shenanigans. And if they occur, I'd love to involve myself in them as the bringer'o'rationality.

"This guy fingered my asshole!" Joe yelled and pointed at the innocent (no matter what actually happened, that's so funny that I'm simply impressed.)

"I did not! What the fuck?"

Jab giggled and ducked below them and whispered in my ear, "it was me." We laughed. Even if he had done it, that would have been remarkable.

"Who fucking cares? It's a crowded bar, everybody's fingering everybody else. Get over it." I said. I'd like to say that that wrapped it all up nicely, but it didn't. They yelled a bit more, I ignored it, and eventually someone talked Joe into the fact that even if it happened, it was an accident.

Why are men so sensitive about their assholes? I'd bet these are the same chaps who fancy a rim job from a lady. You betcha. They aren't trying to fuck them. It just may be some slippage, perhaps a result of some drunkenness and being the exact same average height of a lot of other men. Women accidentally bump tits all the time. It's just reality.

Eventually we were seated and served by a lovely waitress who was remarkably patient with our drunken crew. I ordered two more Cadillac Margaritas. Jab and Kyle ordered more shots.

I had been observering these two girls with us for the entire evening. One was the Sarah Silverman rip-off from Park La Brea. She wasn't funny at all, just kind of delightfully jew-y. She and the one I'll call "The Blonde One" began this banter:

"Bitch!"
"Bitch!"
"No...you're the bitch!"

This was done in a flamboyant Bobby Trendy (remember the Anna Nicole Smith Show? I hope so) manner so richly associated with gay dudes and silk shirts. It's okay if you're flamboyant. It's not okay if you're just a girl that seems to smoke a lot of Marlboro Reds.

"I've got to ask, why do you guys call each other bitch back and forth? It doesn't seem terribly rewarding." The tequila was starting to hit me. I was secretly hoping for a match of the minds.

"Oh we just do it to make fun of our friends."

Uh huh.

So we've got 1) Calling each other "bitch" and sounding like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and 2) making fun of their own friends.

Lovely.

I promptly went back to being friends with my tequila.

I suppose I had ordered a chicken quesodilla because it appeared in font of me at right about this time.

This was when my brain and my tequila decided to have a conversation. It went like this:

Brain says to tequila, "so I notice that you've been taking quite a bit of my capacity away, eh?"

Wry little tequila replies, "yes! Surely I have. And I will commondere more very shortly."

Brain to tequila, "so should we just make a truce and I'll agree to not remember anything after this point? I'd rather not fight, I want to still be friends."

Tequila is exalted. "Yes! Fabulous decision my good friend. I'll see you next time!"

Then tequila rode off into the sunset on a silver steed, shooting pistols in the air.

At least that's how it felt.

So clearly, things got very blurry at this point. I do recall, however.

1) Kyle said to me, "you're so awesome, really, you're the most awesome girl ever." In an effort to prove him wrong, I think, I slapped him. Then I immediately regretted my decision and took off my glasses and begged him to slap me. He wouldn't do it.

2) Shortly afterward, I asked Kyle if I could go to Japan with the lot of them in September.* He holds the purse-strings. He said yes. I don't know why the fuck he said yes. I had just slapped him.

The next thing I remember is being led out of the restaurant by Jab. Some time passed, it was dark and hot out. Drunken white people were running amok in Los Angeles. The people that were legitimately celebrating Cinco de Mayo were probably drunk on PBR elsewhere.

All of a sudden, like a nasty email from a frenemy, I realized my foot hurt very badly. I looked down at my swampy feeling open-toed shoe to realize that I was bleeding profusely.

Yes, this had happened once before. Election night. Damn my adorable feet looking so peachy in open-toed shoes. Though on election night and now on Cinco de Mayo, they'd gone from looking peachy to resembling shredded shabu shabu beef.

I kept walking though Jab asked me repeatedly to stop.

"Noooooo...I am just fine. Let's keep going." I'd forgotten that the car was a solid mile away. In Los Angeles terms, this is a death march.

At some point, on some random street with a fine grassy spot to plop my drunk ass down on, I guess I agreed to Jab's request that I stop continuing to tear my foot apart and let him come get me.

So there I sat on a street that I didn't know. Alone. With a bloody foot. In between a Land Rover and a Mercedes. I was kind of hidden, a bit concerned that Jab couldn't see me when he came back with the car.

So I called B.R. We have a saying: When you're on the phone, you're not alone.

According to her recount of the conversation I was repeating this phrase an inordinate number of times, "I'm sitting between a Land Rover and a Mercedes."

She said, "well at least it sounds like it's a nice neighborhood." That's true, but I was drunk and alone. I could be at fucking Buckingham Palace and it would still be frightening.

B.R. also told me she was on the phone with me for a solid half hour. Actually she said, "an extremely long time." Apparently she also tried to get me to call a cab and I rejected her idea. This is when she became concerned and decided she wouldn't get off the phone with me until Jab got me, which he eventually did.

"Where the hell were you?!" I was acting upset because I was drunk. Truly, I could never be upset at him. I'm lucky to have anybody driving my drunk and unrepentant ass around.

"Um well, I had to climb over a fence and some trees. I got lost." I don't know where he got lost on the way to Park La Brea and was forced by his direction to climb trees and fences, but it's no matter, that's kind of manly and awesome. Kind of like our own drunken Beverly Hills version of Lost.

When we got home I realized what a carved up state my foot was in. I split open the front of my big toe. It took until Saturday to even be able to walk normally. I know what you're thinking, no, it wasn't due to the sex. You cheeky assumptive little devils.

I'm not going to wait for a third time to learn my lesson about being drunk and wearing exceedingly adorable peep-toed footwear. Converse while drinking, from now on, forever.



*I feel like a dick for asking this. I will probably not go.