January 9, 2010

New Yeared

Disappointing 'parties,' cliched resolutions, and not nearly enough heavy drinking. Do I really need to say more?

I suppose I must elaborate, since I haven't posted in a monthful of Sundays.

First: dinner with co-worker-friends of the boyfriend, a toss-up between a new French/Asian fusion place or something called Abuelos, that no one had heard of but one person was really, really rooting for. Somehow, Abuelos won, to our dismay. Not only was it a chain restaurant, but it was a chain restaurant that was trying to do to Mexican food what Olive Garden did to Italian, with random place names, fake homey ethnic charm created by terrible murals and fake architecture, and starchy processed sides that didn't fill you up but instead just made you feel 'eh'.

To top it off. Friends of one of the boyfriend's coworkers were invited, and despite being in their mid-to-late twenties, the other side of the table decided to pool together all of the extra cheese, salsa, sweet-n-low, and various other condiments, blend it on an extra plate, and dare people to eat it.

Fortunately, we duck out at this point, trying to make it to a party held by some friends of the boyfriend. Calling it a party might be stretching it; twelve people sitting around a large dining room table playing a game that combines cards, slaying dragons, and potions is not really a party--it's just lame. We give up almost immediately.

Time is running out. We decide to forgo a party thrown by one of my friends, thanks to a surreptitious text message saying that it was kind of a dud, and they were probably going to hit a bar on the other side of town when the time came. We passed on that much driving.

Local watering hole it was, filled to the gills with people who finally found babysitters, and so they're going out hard. Lots of desperate 40 year old straight couples and a surprising amount of young gay men that either the boyfriend or I did a coffee date or hooked up with, and they were all looking worse for the wear, which made us concerned that maybe we were worse off too. Not to sound too conceited, but I don't think so. At least not that bad.

It was also karaoke night. When the midnight hour came, the dj/host let the theatre fag who was obviously still bitter for being passed over for the lead in his high school's production of "Guys and Dolls" finish his rendition of "Luck Be A Lady Tonight" before grabbing the microphone and saying something to the effect of "Sorry about this guys, but according to my computer its 12:01, so Happy New Year! There's free champagne at the bar if you'd like. Up next is a drunk forty-year-old woman with teased hair who's singing some Patsy Cline."

And then it was twenty-ten. The End.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.