This post is only about two weeks late. I believe the saying goes something like "life is what happens when you're busy living"? It's been a chaotic few weeks, what can I say? But I think it's about time I wrote about it, because my mom's been sitting around all week dying to find out what I meant by "dirty dancing." And Karen's been dying to find out exactly how I'm going to explain this to my mother. And my sisters are just dying of embarrassment. As usual. (Hi guys!)
Karen, Karen's friend Martie and I started out at Coyote's. It was packed - we got there just as they were starting a lineup, but we only stood there for maybe five minutes. It's just your average bar/club with a twist - you must be over 25 to get it. It's a helpful policy that cuts down on the number of skanky 19-year-olds clogging up the place; on the downside, the number of skanky-30-year-olds trying to look like 19-year-olds increases. Or am I just being old and crotchety, and that's what bar/clubs normally look like on Saturday night? I'm out of practice, you see.
Anyways, we checked our coats and squeezed our way to the bar. While waiting for the bartender to notice us, we were enthusiastically greeted by a blonde woman and her friends ("entourage") who were quite drunk. We saw her and greeted her at least three more times before the end of the evening, which must have made us her new best friends or something. Eventually, we made our way to the dance floor, where some guy with Elvis sideburns and sunglasses was getting down. Cute. Later, some other guy had the 'burns and glasses and was telling us how soft they were. Nice. Now go away.
The dance floor was about the size of a postage stamp, and not one of the pretty special-issue ones, either. Happily, not many people wanted to dance. Or they were dancing in the cage, which is really just an elevated dance floor surrounded by steel mesh (hence, the "cage" feeling). The other reason not many people were dancing was the weirdly eclectic-in-a-not-good-way music selection.
I admit - I'm a music snob. I can tolerate - even enjoy - a mixed playlist if there is a flow to the music. The music at Coyote's had none of that. It didn't flat out suck, and there were some high points (I finally got to hear the "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" song), and some very low points ("Strokin'" - *shiver*) The rest of it. . . made no sense. It was a mix of hip-hop/r&b, pop, some rock, and country. Including "The Devil Went Down to Georgia", another song I haven't heard in years. I mean, it's not a bad song and all; it just sounded out of place.
So we hung around there for a while until the music started to go completely downhill. Martie wanted to go to Zig's - earlier in the evening, she had helped a friend of hers get into drag and wanted to see if he was still dressed up. Plus, Martie and Kris and Karen have been trying to get me to go there since last October, but I haven't made it yet. So we cruised on over.
Right off the bat, it reminded me of a bar I used to go to with friends when I lived in Halifax (Julie and Kim will remember it - The Tickle Trunk. At least, the downstairs part. Ahhh. . . good times. Good times.) Very laid back, very informal, and better music.
Eventually, we found Martie's adorable friend, D., who had changed, except for his high-heel boots, which he put to good use by demonstrating his model walk. Which instantly made us jealous - why is it this skinny kid can out-catwalk us three women? So we all sat around, chatting and watching the cute boys dancing.
So, then D. asked me to dance, which - okay. Sure, I thought, I can do this, no prob. It's not like it's been years since I've danced with a guy, but it's like riding a bike - you never truly forget how. And how difficult can it be, really? Famous last words. Apparently, what D. had in mind was to show me how to dirty dance, which is not what I was expecting. At all. "It's easy," he said. "Watch!"
Wowzers. I may not be old and arthritic yet, but I'm close, and there's no way I could recreate what he had just done without throwing out my back and dislocating my knee. Plus - I've just met him, and I can't do that with a perfect stranger! I managed to stammer an excuse, promised to try next time. So I guess between now and the next time I need to practice.
The rest of the evening was a blast. We danced and sang along, and basically acted like the divas we are. If you haven't unleashed your inner diva recently, I would suggest airing her out - it's rather liberating.
As it was the weekend of the time change, it was after 3 by the time we got out of there. Because it was chilly and D. had a bit of a hike ahead of him (in high heels, no less), we offered him a ride home. On the walk to the car, he was describing a guy he'd met, and mentioned something about this guy's "treasure trail." Apparently, Karen and I must have had the same blank expressions on our faces so he explained what it meant - it's the line of hair between the navel and the pubic bone. We looked at each other, and started cracking up. (It still elicits a giggle from time to time - hey, I'm easily amused!)
From there, we dropped D. off, and then went to Burger King for milkshakes, and then home.
And there you have it. My big night on the town.
