Two girls at the door being hit on by the bouncer, one waitressing with a short skirt and tattoos in exactly all the places you're not supposed to look. She doesn't catch me peeking, but maybe I'm too intoxicated to be truly discreet.
With every sip I can feel the beer suds steadily submerging more and more of my cerebral cortex in its incapacitating elixir, leaving the demanding art of flirtation to progressively fewer and fewer suave brain cells.
"Hey, what does your tattoo say?" I inquire, with a little too much enthusiasm.
"Oh it says: (I don't remember her answer, but it was probably something gothic)."
"Oh... but... you have a lot of them." Apparently the surge of ethanol overtook all the brilliant brain cells, leaving only underachievers and slackers to develop dialogue.
She stares at me with blank eyes, and we share an exquisite awkward moment. I wish I had a camera.
There are two ways to end a conversation.
- Excuse yourself politely
- Say something so unintelligent the other person has no choice but to conclude that you are not an intelligent life form and scurry away. If you need help with this one, drink and the answer will come to you.
I retreat back to my seat. "Well. I'm ready to leave."
But where to? What do you do when you discover you have drank too much to flirt subtly? Well that my friend, is why the Japanese invented karaoke.
"Put your motherfucking hands in the hair!!!!!!!!!
Get your fucking hands in the air!!!"
I point to a cute white girl who has brought herself to my attention by failing to hide her amusement.
"YOU!!! Put your hands in the air!!!" She complies immediately.
Karaoke requires the exact opposite energy of barstool flirtation. Scream hysterically. Jump up and down. Make a scene and you will win the room. Forget talking. In the state you're in this is the only chance you've got to make a connection.
Immediately after my aggressive rendition of "Circles" by Soul Coughing, an older chick materializes from thin air and forces her dance moves on me, which involve grabbing each others hands and spinning around gracelessly. I can tell by her ring finger that she's married. Extremely married. But that's okay, I'm just here to fulfill my fantasies too.
We drunk dance with stupid smiles and then wave goodbye without ever making eye contact.
I know, I know, this is another one of those trite "happily ever after" endings. It's not my fault that my life is a series of idealistic romance cliches. I don't make these things up.