Over & Over – Hot Chip
To my naked eye, it would appear that Memorial Day weekend is the time Americanos like to booze and booze until they can’t remember a thing. Thankfully, I remembered it all. Starting with Saturday night. DJigging. Mighty hoot. Until. Manager asks us to shut down the music. Crowd were going too nuts. Testosterone flying off the walls. Estrogen dominating the dance floor. Not enough security to control them. Dose. Shut down. At least we got to finish earlier than anticipated. Happy days. Celebrate on! Last call. Left the bar. Strolling home. Myself. Chowder. Ted. Trying to flag down a cab. No joy. Stroll past my old street. Old haunt at the top. Shop of Bodies. Big Jim. Head bouncer. Long time no see. Shouts over. Where’s my free book, Irish man?! Where’s my dignity, Big Jim!? Before we know it, Jim is twisting arms. Come in for a drink. Nay, not a fan any more! Twists: Free in! Ehh. Can’t remember the last time we were here actually. One drink? Why not? Never hurt anyone! Famous last words.
In we go. Through the velvet curtains. Place is packed. Full to the brim. Men. Everywhere! Wuu. Waitress takes us to a table pointed out by Big Jim. Over we stroll. Few steps of dancing. Music pumping out. Get to the table. Sit down. Waitress whips out her notepad. What would you like to drink… How about three Guinness- Funk. Balls. Forgot. No alcohol! Dose. Now I remember why this place is particularly pointless. Apple juice. Fake Red Bull. Or. Water? Minimum of two drinks a head. Tut. Three waters. And. Three of your finest fake Red Bulls, please! Three of us sit down at the table. Classy mirrored wall behind us. Placed is packed. Squashed in. All I can see are guys standing in front of me. Not too bothered. Having a laugh. Until. Girl comes over…
Would you like a dance? No. Thank you. Come on. Have a dance. No, no. I’m good. Just here because there’s nowhere else open. Coerced in by Big Jim. Cheers though. Why don’t you want a dance?! I just don’t. No offence. Look, here comes the waitress now with our waters and fake Red Bulls. I’m going to enjoy these and go. Waitress puts the drinks on the table. Cue mentalness… WHY DON’T YOU WANT A DANCE?! Girl freaks out. Grabs a glass of fake Red Bull. Is she… She is… Beautiful… Throws it all over me. Mighty. Look at her in disbelief. Look over at Ted who is wondering the exact same thing… What. The. Funk?! Cue glass number two. Dumped on my lap. Again. Mighty! Everyone now looking in bewilderment. What’s actually happening here? Waitress, shocked. Chowder, drunk. Ted, confused. Me, fully soaked. On cue, nutter dumps a bottle of water all over me. Holy. Sweet. Jesus! What’s going on?! SERIOUSLY!?! (And where are my reactions trying to stop her?!)
By now the waitress is waving security over. Big Jim and a few more scuttle to our table. Nutter girl is escorted away. Big Jim’s asking me what’s going on? I’m asking him what’s going on? Waitress doesn’t know what happened. Nutter girl seems to be unable to take a ‘No’. Screaming at me from across the room. Big Jim starts to apologise. Hands me a tiny napkin. Cheers, Jim. Ted, laughing. Chowder, drunk. Waitress, gone off to get us new drinks. Jim is appeasing the situation. It’s OK. Look… At least you can write about it in your next book? Yeah fair point, Big Jim! Turn around to go sit back down at our table. See a big bear of a man sitting down in our seats, wondering why everything is dripping wet.
How’s it going? Yeah, we were just actually sitting here. Had to sort out some nutter. No worries though. We can share the table. Big Bear just looks at us. Chilling look. Buddies on the table next to him growl something at us. Friendly chaps. Sorry lads, just got soaked to the bone for no reason. More cold looks. And now ye’re trying to intimidate us? Funk that. Sit down at the table too. Wait for the waitress. Chowder, still drunk. Ted, no longer laughing. Me, sitting, soaking. Big Bear growls at me. This is my table. How? Well done. Plenty of room. Chill. The Bear is not happy. Waitress arrives back. Puts the tray of drinks on the table. The Bear says no. I tell her it’s OK. The Bear stands up. Ahh. Mighty.
Out of nowhere, a bottle of open water comes flying at my head. Nutter girl has come running back. Misses. Hits the mirrored wall. Water soaks me. Wets the table. Nutter runs back off. What the funk is going on with this loose lunatic?! Big Bear looks at me. Chin locking. I look back. How is that my fault? She threw the water at me? Chill out. By now Chowder has chugged one of the Red Bulls. Puts the empty glass on the table. Ted is still not laughing. What’s wrong Ted? Ehh. That guy – Who, Big Bear? – Yeah. That’s Suge Knight. Be careful. Dodgy dude. Oh right. I know the name. ‘Most feared man in hip-hop’? Apparently. No wonder his dirty looks had such a chill. Impending sense of danger. Dodge. A. Duu.
Drinks On Me!
Turn back to see Big Bear now talking to Chowder. Realise that the Bear is a beast. About 6’4. Head like a bull. Built like a bear. Hear him telling Chowder that he can’t put drinks on the table. Chowder has no clue what he’s saying. Keeps genuinely asking Big Bear to repeat himself ‘Sorry mate, I didn’t hear you, pardon?’ Big Bear is not looking happy. Perplexed. Irate. Chowder is swaying. Ted is anxious. Big Bear’s buddies are standing up. Drinks are on the table. Quickly weigh things up. Dripping in luminous yellow fake Red Bull. Nutter girl is worryingly psychotic. Cherry on top, a fledgling feud with a dodgy beast of a man is now in the making. Safety issues all round. Time to get out of dodge!
Fine, Big Bear, take the table. Mull over giving a quick Clint-Eastwood-Gran-Torino-style finger-toting goodbye. Thank Big Jim for getting us to pop in. Great call! Waitress come scuttling over to me. Tells me I must pay my bill. For what now? All the drinks? The ones that are on me, not funking in me?! Yes. Six of them. Ah well, while I’m having so much fun. Fine. Great way to spend thirty minutes. Pay the tab. Walk home. Fun night! Nail in the coffin for the Body Body!
Can You Play The Salsa?
At least Sunday was a bit more fun. Well. Daytime, anyways. Night-time turned into another comical farce. DJigged one bar during the day. BBQ. Booze. Beer garden. Good day’s work! Night-time, headed off for gig two. Bar/restaurant up the road from me. Odd to be booked for a Sunday night there but plough on. Set up quickly. Whip on some house music. All the usual. Until… Guy comes up and asks us for a microphone. Ehh. No. Why? Birthday announcement. Birthday slideshow. Birthday party. OK? Turn to Chowder. I think we got down. This is not regular night. Party has the place booked out. Meaning only one thing… Requests. Any salsa music? Ehh. No. That’s all they want. Dose. Where’s the manager who booked us? Not on? Handy. Leave us to these Spanish speaking middle to older-aged women. Salsa? Sorry. None. Who? Sorry. No clue who these people are. Doris Day? Eh. Que sera sera? No. Tut. Don’t have that either.
In the end, people started to come up and give us CDs. Could we just play these instead of our music? Yeah. Fine. Whatever works for ye. Paid irregardless. Night will just go down as a humourous disaster. Put on their CDs: Spanish style ballroom waltzing music. Sat back. Enjoyed our jugs of vodka mimosas. Watched old folks waltz. Only work we had to do was to change the CDs. Except. Sound system cut out at one point. Causing my laptop to freeze. Making the first CD get stuck in my laptop. Meaning we could only play that one CD on repeat. Fun. Some guy kept trying to buy myself and Chowder shots while requesting songs that don’t actually exist. Got him to buy my book off Amazon instead (new ploy to counter song requests). And then some guy slipped on the dance floor. Fell over. Hit his head. Passed out. Ambulance showed up. Fifteen paramedics bumbled out for some reason. All raced into the bar. Onto the dance floor. Ice packs in hand. Stretcher wheeled in. Loaded up a now recovered man. Carted him away despite protests. Some people started to cry. Others just went back dancing. Fun times!
Day And Knight
In fairness, memorable weekend. Mostly good. Plenty to ponder while watching old people do the waltz… Do I now have some sort of a feud with the former CEO of Death Row Records? Am I starting to see imaginary flies once again? How on earth did we manage to get booked for a Spanish salsa birthday party? Most importantly, will that guy actually go and buy Randumb? So many questions. So few definitive answers! Although as a wise woman once sang… Que sera, sera! Knight off. Day on. Go on the Doris!
Que Sera, Sera – Doris Day