My cellphone rang. It was DirectorGuy.
"Dude, what're you up to tonight? Sean's wife and baby are in Texas for the weekend, so I'm dragging his ass out for GNO (Guy's Night Out). This might never happen again, so you have to come."
Back in the old partying days, Sean was legend. But one night I introduced him to DirectorGuy's sister, and BAM! a year later they were married.
"Let me get back to you on that," I said.
Granted this may be Sean's only night as a "free man," but I wasn't sure if I was up for it. I'm rapidly approaching that point in my life where I don't want to be "Boring Old Guy," but I also don't want to be "Pathetic Old Guy At The Club." Hell, I may already be there. Therefore I've been more selective about my venues, which means avoiding places where most of the females were born after Duran Duran's "Reflex" topped the charts.
The place DirectorGuy had in mind was Le Prive. I hadn't been there in over a year. My last visit appropriately ended with a fist fight between me and several wannabe gangbanger punks on the dancefloor after one of them had pushed my girlfriend. I still have a small, thin scar on the side of my head where a ring scratched me. I'm definitely too old for any place where a guy attempts to scare you by pulling out his parole card.
So of course I ended up going. Luckily I was joined by other fellow Pathetic Old Guys at the club, with the exception of DirectorGuy who's still a spry young lad (and single, ladies).
And Sean, the Boring Old Guy, had his GNO.
Guys Night Out lasted for about two hours, then Chuck - that mangina - showed up with his better half. Those two are practically joined at the hip. When she's not around, Chuck actually starts to experience phantom pains like an amputee. None of us cared though, because by this point we were profoundly shitfaced.
Chuck's girlfriend took this shot of me trying to wipe vomit off my pants on the side of our booth, which I had hoped would be lined with puke-absorbent fabric.
Earlier in the evening, two of the guys had brought along a female buddy; and by the time I'd gotten to the club, they'd almost finished an entire bottle of whiskey and she was quite plowed. Next thing you know, I looked down during a conversation to see her head hovering dangerously over my lap - which was ironic considering the topic of the conversation was "Geez, I hope she doesn't throw up on my lap."
So I jumped up and checked my jeans. Whew, they were dry. I walked around to the other side of the booth and sat down ... right where she'd previously vomited, unbeknownst to me and my ass.
Chuck's girlfriend also took this shot of some random girl sitting at a nearby booth. My guess was she's post-"Reflex." Despite that, one of the guys had really wanted to engage in an intellectual discussion with her about geothermal energy; but it appeared she had a boyfriend. Can't say I really blame him for trying: hot chicks in form-fitting, all-white, belly-baring clothes were my kryptonite. My girlfriend was wearing a similar outfit the night I'd met her in a library.