O and I went drinking in Huntington Beach last Thursday, and it was an awesome disaster.
After wine and sake at O’s place, we drove to Huntington Beach, where we got in line for 2nd Floor, the first bar/club that looked happening. When we reached the head of the line, the bouncer informed us that we wouldn’t be able to get in unless we were on the guest list. The group ahead of us left, and the bouncer looked at us and asked if our names were on the guest list, to which I responded no.
“Then I can’t let you in,” he said. “We’re at capacity.”
I looked at O, who said evenly, “Actually, we are on the guest list. Our names are under John K.”
The bouncer flipped skeptically through his list. To keep from laughing, I stared first at the sky then at the bouncer’s face, carefully avoiding eye contact with O.
“It could be John C.,” O offered helpfully.
The bouncer flipped through some more pages. I spent every ounce of my energy trying to keep a straight face. Finally, O extracted a $10 bill from his wallet and slipped it into the bouncer’s hand.
The bouncer accepted the bill without looking at it. “You guys are on the guest list,” he said smoothly, and let us in.
“That was like the most awesome thing I’ve ever seen,” I told O as we climbed the stairs to the bar.
“I’m telling you I’ve been gaining mad skills,” he said.
2nd Floor played mostly hip hop and had a casual, slightly white trashy crowd. A few girls wore dresses, but most girls wore jeans, and everyone, guys and girls, had gigantic, hideous tattoos. O chatted up a Chinese girl with a big, ugly back tattoo who was there to celebrate her brother’s birthday. She was visiting from Sacramento, where she owned a hair salon, and turned out to be nice and talkative. We drank copiously and hung out and danced with her and her brother for a little bit before heading over to Hurricane’s.
Hurricane’s, like 2nd Floor, was also a second-floor restaurant-cum-bar with a dance floor. It seemed cleaner than 2nd Floor because it was less crowded. I liked the light up dance floor and had such a great time drinking and dancing that I left my wallet, ID, and credit cards there and didn’t notice until we got back to O’s place.
Once we got back home, O threw up into the toilet, passed out in the doorway of his bathroom, and spent the rest of the night gagging, snoring, and scroaning (a term I made up depicting a combination of groaning and screaming in one’s sleep). I passed out in O’s bed but kept getting woken up by his noises, so I recorded them on my phone before migrating to the couch.
Here’s a picture of O passed out cold: