Thursday, December 19, 2013

The Taxi and the Crash

After that it was a hop skip and jump to downstairs to get sorted, so I walked into the regular downstairs venue where the live band was doing horrible covers of Blink-182. At the bar I ended up standing next to a gentleman in a gray suit, with huge hands and a mustache curled up at the sides. He looked every inch like he had just walked out of a Coen brother’s movie set in New York in the fifties. He collected his drinks, nodded at me, and disappeared.

I ordered one for the road while I started layering up for the outside.

As I turned suddenly he was back again.

“That was fast!” I commented.


“You just left with those drinks.”

“Oh. It’s the Latvians. I’ve been drinking with Latvians. I’m almost positive it is going to be the absolute death of me.”

“Latvians. I get it. I’ve had the luxury of drinking with Russians and Ukrainians. It’s impossible to drink with anyone from that part of Europe and Asia, really.”

“I swear it's like vodka is water and they are fish who cannot live without it.”

“I sympathize.”

“And now, madame, if you will excuse me, I must deliver another round of drinks to them and then, I shall dance.” He bowed and walked off and I smiled and watched him go. Back to his table of Latvians to drop off the drinks and then, walking every so delicately considering his size, over to a table of Korean ladies (I could hear them talking) and held out a hand which was, surprisingly, accepted. They began to swirl around the room and I bounced for a taxi.

My night of international randomness was not quite done, as the cabbie was listening to the BBC World Service when I entered. He went to change it to American rock, but I asked him to please leave the news on.

“Most people want music.”

“I prefer information.”

“You're not from around here then.” He smiled.

“Neither are you.”

We spent most of the drive to the apartment discussing news, the most recent developments in the Philippines (which was his home), and eventually politics in general and the lack of interest in the world by Americans in particular. I left a nice tip.

At the house I slid the couch out, did my own Suicide Girls strip show, and passed outcold, hard, and fast, with dancing storm troopers and spinning vortexes winding me to my bed.

My Swag Bag

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