Sorry, Ma'am, It's Not My Dimebag
So, pretend you own a restaurant/bar that cashes in on a stale homocentric scene in the City of Brotherly Dry Humping by hosting a party every third Friday of the month catering to a crowd that’s say, a little lighter in the loafers than most. With me so far? Presumably, this is your most lucrative night of the month since homos come out in droves whenever a drink special is held out in front of them like the proverbial carrot dangling from the stick. [Note to self: try hard to resist the obvious carrot/stick/gay joke. Breathe. And…resume.] What would your next move be? Why not alienate your client base by improvising a fake dress code and not letting people in?
If you follow that logic, chances are you work for the Mansion on Rittenhouse. On Friday night, the owners of the manse turned bar decided to enforce a dress code of no t-shirts or sneakers, a dress code that was never in effect before this night, a dress code that was used to discourage the gays from entering. And it’s a dress code that is not very amenable to the balmy Indian summer we are experiencing. The planners of the party stood outside the bar and told people not to go in. I imagine that the “Lucky Lounge” party will probably be held elsewhere. The actions of The Mansion smacked of homophobia. I highly encourage you to boycott the Mansion. So ordered. If you do stop by, tell the owners we said to fuck off.
The disappointing night out was more than made up for the night after as lady-friends of mine threw a rocking dance party in their basement. It was a smidge hot, but one highlight was some dude who couldn’t decide if he wanted to make out with me or my friend JD (a female). She coined him Gaybe (a hybrid of gay and maybe). Gaybe was all up in our shit all night. I don’t know if he were cute or if it were just super dark in the basement and I needed attention. The copious amounts vodka did not help my assessment skills.
The other night I was approached by a man on the street who asked, in this order, if I had any heroin, cocaine or pot. Way to set the expectations high, buddy! At first I didn’t understand if he were asking me to buy or sell; so, I asked him to clarify. He said he was buying, but was also interested in helping me if I wanted to buy. I was even more confused and walked away. Drug dealers should really be more effective communicators if they expect to make any money. No wonder he had holes in his jeans.
Was that the only drug-related incident of the night? Not for me, no. I was on the phone with the G, trying to enter my apartment building and pulling the keys out of my pocket. As I was fumbling with my keys, some woman, a young one dressed in scrubs, passed by me and asked if something fell out of my pocket. I figured something had fallen out when I took my keys out, so I thanks her and leaned down to pick up what I had dropped. When my eyes met the ground, I realized I was face to face with a small bag of pot.
Inner monologue: “Did I drop a bag of pot out of my pants? No, Z, you don’t do drugs. That’s why you drink so much, alcohol is your anti-drug. Then how did this fall out of your pants, Z? Maybe it didn’t. No, it definitely didn’t. That lady was nice to tell me about my pot. Wait, that lady thinks I dropped my drugs. Illicit drugs. Will she tell my mom? My mom wouldn’t care, I guess. Wait again, that woman thinks I do drugs. Should I let her walk away thinking that or should I embarrass myself further by chasing her and letting her know they’re not mine? Ah, just let it go. No, that’s too easy.”
So, while still on the phone, I chased the woman down the street. And the conversation went something like this:
Z: Hey wait!
Woman: Yes? Are you ok?
Z: Yes. Thanks so much for pointing out that you thought I dropped something. But it turns out I didn’t.
W: Oh, Ok.
Z: See, that was a bag of pot on the ground. And it wasn’t even mine. Weird, huh?
W: Uh, yeah.
Z: So, like I said, it wasn’t mine.
W: Ok, have a good night.
Z: I have actually never even smoked a cigarette! So, I don’t do drugs.
W: I am going to go now.
Z: Have a great night. Thanks again.
W: Yeah. [walks away quickly]
Too bad I couldn’t have given that pot to the guy from before who was asking about the drugs. Life really is all about timing!
And it wouldn’t be a month at True Enough For You without my reporting a death in the family. Jazzmine, the family dog died the other night. My mom called me crying on Saturday morning to inform me that the dog had passed away. While the dog and I had our ups and downs (For example, I couldn’t breathe around her since I am quite allergic to dogs. Not that this stopped my family from getting one. Not that I am still bitter. Sigh.), I will miss the old dog. It’s sad. Rough summer for my family. I would joke and say to stay tuned and see who dies next, but I don’t want to tempt fate.
More to come tomorrow. Hey, it’s restaurant week in Philadelphia!