Nah, the band was great
Woke up this morning with the distinct impression that sometime in the past 24 hours my teeth managed to dissolve, and then coat themselves on my tongue. This feeling has not improved or abated in the 5 hours since I’ve been awake.
In addition to what I’m suspecting may be an near-indestructible film in my mouth (they should make spaceships out of this stuff…twenty fumbling minutes with mouthwash and toothbrush, and my mouth still tastes like an ashtray), this morning also brought the discovery of a lovely hickey…a glorious, tasteless, white trash souvenir of what I was really hoping was a bad dream. I have no idea what his name is…just a faint impression of a blubbery, swarthy, bear of a man. I’m really hoping it wasn’t the new bouncer at Elbo. What I can remember is quite the awkward and embarrassing encounter, and I’d rather not be reminded of it every time I go to my home away from the other place I drink at.
Elbo. It’s great. The Elbo Room (2871 N. Lincoln Ave, if you’re ever in Chicago) has been the scene for the most humiliating events in my life since Stickman’s in Davenport, Iowa (it’s closed now, but was a great mostly for their incredibly lax carding policy). Anything that results in me cringing or limping “the next day,” probably happened (or started) at Elbo. I have my own stool at the bar, about half my drinks are free, shots are always free and I DJ there on Mondays. And despite the fact that I make a fool of myself there at least once a week, they still love me.
Last night I went there after work. Allegedly because I’d promised some young hopeful that I’d check out his band, but I always go there on Saturdays after work, so I wasn’t really stretching myself with promising to be there. His band played at 12:30. I got there at 10. I didn’t see the band.
Or maybe I did. I don’t remember.
What I DO remember:
4 Amstel lights (started the evening like a good girl)
2 and 1/2 Packs of menthol cigarettes
Approximately 2 pints of gin (I think)
3 shots of Jager (I think)
Deciding after close that I wanted to go somewhere else. Someone saying they’d go with me. Said someone was burly.
Somewhere else ended up being my place. I really hope that the beer goggles were on backwards, and that he’s better looking than my gin-soaked memories are suggesting.
It was unpleasant, I have a hickey, and I don’t think we even ended up having sex because I started crying about the guy that I actually like.
Thankfully he was gone when I woke up, freeing me to vomit copiously for several minutes, from both shame, and you know…the booze.
At least it improved the taste in my mouth.