the time we went to dinner with s'fire and icknay at guadalajara, i was psychotic in my efforts to keep them seated across from us in the booth forever. more talking! more margaritas! more beans! all of my friends that are coupled are either coupled with
a) a man who lives in minneapolis, or
b) a scrawny catastrophe of a woman with an obscenely large collection of dorky scarf-headbands and an obscenely larger collection of low-rent dudes with whom she is "just friends."
aside from that, "okay, we'll meet up with you at midnight" isn't really a selling sentence for civilized human beings.
but the stars aligned on thursday, and so we got to go to a meat party.
we ate cheeseburgers, a salad with huge chunks of feta cheese, and geogrl's sweet potato french fries on their deck, wandered inside for the main event: the chinchilla cheech's dust bath. [next time there will be video of this.]
when we realized the vfw was closed, we went to the north pole -- which is perhaps the preeminant west duluth bar. located on a corner of raleigh street, this brightly lit bar features a well-tended juke box, possibly the best, most fun-encouraging bartender in the state, and a special patio with a wood burning stove. if you, perchance, set your beer on the deck's railing, you are inviting a neighborhood cat to splash his paw in your drink as though his little furry hand is a pita chip; the beer an avacado dip.
aside: i hate other people's cats. to me, touching one is as invasive as if a stranger had casually stripped out of their underthings and draped them over your body.
on this night, i found a young man face down on the picnic table bemoaning his most recent piece of pizza.
"is it his birthday?" i asked his two friends.
"yes," the designated driver responded.
"twenty-one?" i guessed.
here, drunkie used his remaining will to hold up two fingers. a weak peace sign.
"twenty-two?" i asked.
he banged his head against the table in a sort of feeble nod-like gesture.
"well, birthday boy," i said. "your zipper is down."
that's when i noticed that i had a full view of his blue stripped boxer shorts.
"actually," i said, "you're hardly wearing pants at all."
this photo was approved of by drunkie.
we were joined later by hotrod, who celebrated his opposite of a promotion by driving straight to duluth from the twin cities. his sister; his sister's boyfriend. hotrod, who was last seen wearing women's jeans and strutting across the stage at the orpheum during homegrown, is, um ... pretty hard to explain. suffice to say he made this photo happen and is passionate about horse racing. frankly, i'm surprised today that none of us are swiss cheesed with stab wounds:
hmmm ... slim jim.
hosts of the meat party.
the hosts of the meat party walked home; we shared a cab east with hotrod, his sister and his sister's boyfriend.
"you ever get it on with a chick in here?" hotrod asked the cab driver. "you ever give girls free rides home ...?"
and with that our cab driver took off at about 70 miles per hour during the dark neighborhood streets of west duluth. hotrod's sister was screaming, "PUT ON YOUR SEATBELTS!" her hair catching flames from cigarette embers.
"is it okay if we pay you with garbage pail kids?" hotrod asked the cab driver.
halfway into the trip we learned that our cabdriver was infamous. in the early 90s, he sullied a national holiday by saying something racist while while the event was being filmed by a local tv station.
this was arguably the worst cab ride home ever. we should've probably should have walked the 15 miles.
we ate pizza and corn nuts, watched "serial mom," and went to bed.