A Night Out

Jen, Vince and I went out last night. I won't go into the mental and social labyrinth I had to negotiate in order to get 2 sisters to a date at the ice-skating rink, another sister to blow off two friends in order to babysit Gwennie, Emma and Jen and Vince's daughters, and then loading 6 people into a very cluttered Honda Accord, but suffice it to say the combined efforts of Superman, King Solomon, and Atilla the Hun would have gotten them nowhere.

Jethro had gone fishing, or to be more precise, "flounder gigging," which is what you call it when you hunt flounder with a spear. Or your dick as Jethro claims. Personally I have my doubts. Regardless, he was not around to play a part.

So Jen, Vince, and I scooted around town stopping at three bars. I remember when three bars was a slow, slow night. I had started drinking red wine earlier in the day at a wedding, and I saw no reason to stop. This is what happens when you are preoccupied with the logistics of getting out. You stop thinking. Red wine makes for a nice buzz, but a terrible hangover.

But while we were out we heard the worst pick-up line ever, drove right through the gay pride parade, and saw a transvestite prostitute and a man running after him. In that order.

The worst pick-up line ever was delivered to two girls at the first bar we were at. They were probably about 21 and pretty cute. The deliverer was about 45, hapless, yet under the delusion that if he spoke loud and fast enough, no one would notice that he was old, desperate, and probably not very good in bed. He came over and introduced himself to the girls and asked if he could buy them a drink. They politely declined to which he said, "But how can I take advantage of you if I can't get you drunk?"

We left shortly after. It was too painful.

We decided to hit another bar and ended up driving through a very colorful, sparkly, but utterly disorganized Gay Pride parade. Jen and I tried to talk Vince into rolling down his window and catcalling some very pretty young men in blue glittery hot pants, but he refused. He's an Irish boy through and through.

The transvestite prostitute was kind of tame after the gay pride parade and not exactly an uncommon site in Houston's Montrose/Midtown area, but I've usually been too drunk to notice them. As I mentioned to Jen and Vince, if you're gonna pay for it, you'd think you'd go for the real thing as opposed to the sure thing. And as Jen said, it's really the difference between Dr. Pepper and Dr. Thunder.