The Best Birthday on Anti-Biotics...continued
Birthday – Part II
So we left the restaurant fairly buzzed around 8 PM or so, and after walking for about 5 or 6 minutes we realized we were very close to Oya Fukadori. This was rather convenient due to the fact that our only frame of reference for the entire city was the area where we knew there were parties and bars. Everything else was pretty much a wash as far as we were concerned. We strolled into the same building where the American rock bar was last time, the building now dubbed piss break alpha.
This time the problem was not only that we were white, didn’t speak Japanese, and were not dressed in suits. I mean, those were still problems, but the bigger problem was that it was still only around 8:30 and most of the bars don’t open until at least 9. So we started at the first floor, got summarily rejected from two bars, and found 4 more closed. Standing in the hallway on the 4th floor one of the bar owners happened to pop out of the door, and we shot her big whitey puppy dog eyes so she graciously admitted us into her establishment a little while before they opened. We were already rolling 4 drinks deep so it was time to dispense with the pleasantries and fire straight into the whiskey and coke. The bar was playing music videos of concerts on the TV, and although it was apparently a country themed bar, which, we all know, would have sent me into a drunken flame wielding rage, the crisis was averted when Paul McCartney’s iron curtain concert went on. Well, at least the crisis was turned into a slightly less appalling crisis. The interior of said bar had all the rustic comforts of a T.G.I. Friday’s at home. Cheesy crap covered the walls from ceiling to floor, but we were in Japan, so this was kitschy and exotic.
The three of us sat down and began another round of drinking games. It was way too early for the major parties to start, and the streets were still nigh deserted, but this was vacation damn it. It basically came down to making a bunch of rules about the conversation which when violated resulted in a drink, no swearing, no addressing people by name, and at one point we outlawed negative comments for ten minutes. During this segment El Angel Solo was almost completely silent, it’s not that she’s a bitch, but well…it kind of is that she’s a bitch. We still love her though. It was during our short tenure at this bar that a new phrase entered the lexicon of the fellowship. El Angel Solo turned to me and asked me some stupid womanly question, to which I replied, “I’m on Anti-biotics, bitch.” It would be a running theme, as you have no doubt gathered for the remainder of the vacation. When we’d finished a few more drinks we departed and went back out to the street.
El Charro has eagle eyes for spotting white people in Japan. He gets very excited and his eyes start twitching a little bit. For a few minutes the trip becomes an old lassie re-run.
“What is it boy?”
“You need to pee?” *El Charro shakes his head”
“Are you hungry? Do you want some Ramen?” *Shakes head*
“Is it white people? Did you see white people somewhere?”
El Charro points across the street, and sure enough, there’s a pile of white people mulling around, looking much like…a group of white people in Japan. We saunter across the street, and make their acquaintance. There was one giant white guy, and as a general rule, giant white guys in Japan are always marines. Sure enough, the dude was a marine stationed at Iwakuni, where all our marine friends were stationed, about a half hour from home base. There were a couple of other guys and girls mixed in and an Indian girl who was a raver, and had some useful information for us about our encroaching volcano rave in Aso.
We exchanged e-mails and promised to be friends forever, when the Indian gal dropped a bombshell on El Charro, “Digweed is playing across the street tonight.”
This meant nothing to me or El Angel Solo, but El Charro was going nuts. He could not in fact believe that “*$&%ing Digweed is playing here tonight?!?!”
I’ll explain: El Charro’s favorite genre of music is psytrance (psychedelic trance), stay with me people; pyschadelic trance is not the most popular genre of music, but in the little nexus of California drug addicts, hipsters, yuppies, and artists that listen to psytrance, Digweed is deified. According to El Charro he regularly charges 10,000 Yen (100 bucks) a head to a few thousand people to listen to him “spin.”
He was playing a really small show in the city of Fukuoka for the measly price of 50 bucks, and by measly I mean, “there’s no way in hell I’m paying 50 bucks to watch a guy play with turntables for a few hours.” El Charro was convinced fate had brought him to this moment in time to see Digweed, but I was convinced fate had brought us here to get drunk and have sex with random Japanese girls. These differences were becoming more irreconcilable by the minute. But just so you don’t gain any respect for me, I will fast forward to the next day a bit and say that none of us “got any” that night.
The other group split and we stood around trying to figure out what the hell we were going to do for the rest of the night. In the meantime my hands were feeling very light, almost ethereal, and as I searched through the darkness of my mind, into the shredded remnants of my soul, I realized…I wasn’t holding a beer. We went to 7-11 and remedied the situation.
Outside the 7-11 the same pile of degenerate Japanese dirtbags who reason forsook the lifestyle of the average Japanese teenager to early twenty something sat outside drinking and smoking cigarettes. Why they would want to give up a life consisting of studying during the day, during the night, during the weekends, and during vacation I’ll never know, but they had fantastic haircuts, trendy/slutty outfits on, and were getting drunker by the minute. We were comfortable here.
We were sitting on the curb blathering about something or other when El Charro’s whitedar went off again. An odd trio was walking in our direction. They turned out to be two Italian guys studying at Fukuoka University, with one of their Japanese classmates, who spoke very good English and acted as their unofficial interpreter. They were pretty interesting kids and we hit it off pretty well. As it turns out, right next to the bar Digweed was spinning, there was an R&B, hip-hoppy thing of some kind going on for 15 bucks. I was pretty much sold. That show started at around 10:30, and Digweed didn’t come on until around 2AM, at this point I was pretty much resigned to the fact that I would drunkenly agree to spend my not so hard earned money to see the show anyway.
As we found ourselves once again confronted with the problem of needing somewhere to continue drinking, my boy Louis showed up, and looking fine in a Camel Hair jacket (always trust a man wearing Camel hair…maybe not men who ride camels).
We start talking to Louis about this guy, Digweed, and his apparent pull within the psytrance community. Louis predictably knows the owner of “Air Bar” and goes to see if he can pull some strings for us. The night is rolling very smoothly. We get another beer and keep talking to our new Italian friends, and I can’t remotely remember what their names were. Ten minutes later Louis comes back downstairs, and he says he can get us all in for 3000 Yen (30 bucks) with two free drinks. Well hell yeah, that comes down to 20 bucks because I would have bought two drinks anyway. Louis will continue to be the man for the remainder of the evening.
It’s still only about 9:30 and the hip-hoppy party thing next door still doesn’t start for about an hour, so Louis offers us a free pitcher of beer at his “Salsa Bar.” I love this man. So we walk behind our Camel Haired leader for about ten minutes and walk into a bar on the third floor of a non-descript building. This is one of those weird juxtapositions that I may never forget, a few dozen Japanese men and women dancing to Salsa. I won’t remember it because it was bad and goofy, and characteristically arrhythmic Japanese. They were all really $&#*ing good at Salsa, and god damn does Salsa make a girl more attractive. Louis moved a bunch of patrons to different tables to make room for us, and the beer began flowing…like beer, from a tap…that pours beer. Listen, we’re not going for Hemmingway here.
El Angel Solo and I tried, and failed miserably, to Salsa. We just made a big mess of the dance floor, threw in a few “Sumemasen Gaijin” and fled the dance floor back to where the beer was being housed. Eventually the Italians and their Japanese friend went to the hip-hop thing and the rest of the fellowship ambled to the bar. It was still technically my birthday so Louis offered me a birthday shot, who knows what it was. At that moment, as the small glass clanged ritualistically on the bar top, I spotted the Japanese Holy Grail. Louis sold Cigars, and damn good cigars, behind the counter. Next to Japanese twins I could not think of a better birthday gift for myself. I bought a rather thick 6 inch Dominican, Don Esteban. Before I lit the birthday girl though, I had more important business to attend to:
“Louis, who is that?”
“Oh, the attractive girl?”
“No the 50 year old next to her. Of course the attractive girl.”
“She’s a salsa teacher, her name is blablabla (I don’t remember her name, and it doesn’t really matter anyway)”
“Can I get a free lesson?”
Louis called her over, and we were introduced, she was incredibly attractive, probably a bit older than me, but I was only half sure, and fully drunk. She spoke almost no English though, but she could probably understand a lot of what I was saying, if I spoke a little slower. Then she called the tall good looking guy who was another Salsa instructor over. El Angel Solo and I were treated to a free salsa lesson. I wasn’t half bad either, at least for the 3 or 4 extremely basic moves I was taught. Afterwards, we bounced to the Rap/R&B/Whatever it was and met up with the Italians.
I lit up the Cigar and we paid the entrance fee into the…frat house? In this nexus of well manicured bartenders, and pristinely designed clubs, this place had all the charm of a set from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. There were concrete floors and concrete walls with no decoration, a giant poorly constructed wooden bar, with nothing behind it. There were just a few bottles on the counter and a refrigerator full of beer next to it. The kids working the door and the bar were wearing hoodies and jeans, and for some reason the entire place reeked of a fine Dominican cigar. Oh, wait, that’s me. The dance floor was pretty large, and there were a dozen or so people mulling around in front of the stage. The stage consisted of four sets of turntables, with 4 DJ’s spinning simultaneously. Two guys seemed to specialize in scratching, while the other two were setting the rhythm and the playlist. It was like home away from home. Minus all the Asians I was back in the basement of my crack infested Binghamton ‘hood, and I drank accordingly.
The music wasn’t really my style, but the DJ’s know what they’re doing in Japan, and I started getting pretty into the set soon after we got there. We drank, and jibber-jabbered and talked for a while, and we still had an hour and a half or so until Digweed, so we decided to go back to Louis’ main bar across the street and grab some grub so to speak. We loaded up on American comfort food, Pizza, fries, burgers, etc…anything rolled in grease really appealed to me at this point. It was only about 1 AM and we’d been drinking for a solid 7 hours or so already, and the main event of the evening hadn’t even started yet. We paid for our food and grabbed the Italians and they’re Japanese friend, then we grabbed Louis and went to go seek the fruit of our social labors for the last two days.
As promised, Louis got us all in for 3,000 Yen, with 2 free drink tickets, double Jack and coke please. I’ll be honest at the risk of losing the respect and admiration of my adoring fans. I nursed this one for a while. This place was called “Air Bar” but it wasn’t one of those cheesy shot bars where you huff oxygen for an inflated yuppie price. They ripped you off the old fashion way, with exorbitant door fees and overpriced drinks. It was very American of them, so I appreciated it. The bar was two floors; the first floor was just a giant square dance floor. We all stumbled up the poorly lit stairs and inside, Digweed, the man of the hour, was not on yet, but the place was packed anyway. Within 30 seconds of entering the bar, Louis had maybe the most attractive Japanese girl I’ve ever seen leaning into him, hinging on his every romantic scream into her face, the man was smooth. We went to check out the upstairs, where the bar was. Apparently every white person in town had the same idea, because it looked like hurricane gaijin had scoured the neighborhood and dropped them in this room. We ran into most of the people from the group we’d met on the street, and other assorted grungy lookin’ foreigners were sprawled across the half dozen couches and 10 or so lazy boy looking contraptions.
I believe we had reached the point in the evening when we all felt much smoother than we actually were, because despite repeated attempts by all three members of the fellowship to hit on the opposite sex, we were instead dragged into inane conversations about our origins, purpose of visit, and plans for the future. It was like ten consecutive conversations with an alcoholic customs agent. We decided it would just be better to go downstairs and listen to some awesome music and dance for a while.
We got downstairs just as Digweed was starting his set, and I was blown away. He’s apparently ranked number 6 among worldwide psytrance DJ’s by a magazine that gives a #$*% about global psytrance DJ’s. But the dude was phenomenal anyway. I had been introduced to a lot of the genre by El Charro, and once you get into it, it is actually closer to classical music than anything else really. It’s insanely complex, multi-faceted, micro-managed like an orchestra, and thumps the breath right out of your chest. At first it all sounded exactly the same, varying levels of “thump, thump, thump, thump.” When you hear a really talented DJ though, they bring in the high notes, and the “obligatory line from an old science fiction movie,” and keep the music rotating and changing and shifting, like real music should.
Dancing to psytrance is a lot of fun too, because like me, none of them can really dance. But everybody is doing their own thing, nobody is standing against the walls judging me, or naturally, laughing at me. After an hour of constant movement, and 11 hours of constant drinking, I used my second bar coupon for a water, amazingly the same price as a beer without a ticket. We ended up shifting back and forth between Digweed and the “frat house” 3 or 4 times over the next couple of hours, chasing girls, or wanting to get off the crowded dance floor, or running from girls and wanting to get back on the crowded dance floor, and finally we went back outside the last time and it was past dawn. We got in a cab around 6 AM, and the drinking started at 6 PM. Our check out time in the hotel was in 5 hours, and we had a 3 to 4 hour drive in front of us…without getting lost. And did I mention, “I’m on anti-biotics, bitch!”
So we left the restaurant fairly buzzed around 8 PM or so, and after walking for about 5 or 6 minutes we realized we were very close to Oya Fukadori. This was rather convenient due to the fact that our only frame of reference for the entire city was the area where we knew there were parties and bars. Everything else was pretty much a wash as far as we were concerned. We strolled into the same building where the American rock bar was last time, the building now dubbed piss break alpha.
This time the problem was not only that we were white, didn’t speak Japanese, and were not dressed in suits. I mean, those were still problems, but the bigger problem was that it was still only around 8:30 and most of the bars don’t open until at least 9. So we started at the first floor, got summarily rejected from two bars, and found 4 more closed. Standing in the hallway on the 4th floor one of the bar owners happened to pop out of the door, and we shot her big whitey puppy dog eyes so she graciously admitted us into her establishment a little while before they opened. We were already rolling 4 drinks deep so it was time to dispense with the pleasantries and fire straight into the whiskey and coke. The bar was playing music videos of concerts on the TV, and although it was apparently a country themed bar, which, we all know, would have sent me into a drunken flame wielding rage, the crisis was averted when Paul McCartney’s iron curtain concert went on. Well, at least the crisis was turned into a slightly less appalling crisis. The interior of said bar had all the rustic comforts of a T.G.I. Friday’s at home. Cheesy crap covered the walls from ceiling to floor, but we were in Japan, so this was kitschy and exotic.
The three of us sat down and began another round of drinking games. It was way too early for the major parties to start, and the streets were still nigh deserted, but this was vacation damn it. It basically came down to making a bunch of rules about the conversation which when violated resulted in a drink, no swearing, no addressing people by name, and at one point we outlawed negative comments for ten minutes. During this segment El Angel Solo was almost completely silent, it’s not that she’s a bitch, but well…it kind of is that she’s a bitch. We still love her though. It was during our short tenure at this bar that a new phrase entered the lexicon of the fellowship. El Angel Solo turned to me and asked me some stupid womanly question, to which I replied, “I’m on Anti-biotics, bitch.” It would be a running theme, as you have no doubt gathered for the remainder of the vacation. When we’d finished a few more drinks we departed and went back out to the street.
El Charro has eagle eyes for spotting white people in Japan. He gets very excited and his eyes start twitching a little bit. For a few minutes the trip becomes an old lassie re-run.
“What is it boy?”
“You need to pee?” *El Charro shakes his head”
“Are you hungry? Do you want some Ramen?” *Shakes head*
“Is it white people? Did you see white people somewhere?”
El Charro points across the street, and sure enough, there’s a pile of white people mulling around, looking much like…a group of white people in Japan. We saunter across the street, and make their acquaintance. There was one giant white guy, and as a general rule, giant white guys in Japan are always marines. Sure enough, the dude was a marine stationed at Iwakuni, where all our marine friends were stationed, about a half hour from home base. There were a couple of other guys and girls mixed in and an Indian girl who was a raver, and had some useful information for us about our encroaching volcano rave in Aso.
We exchanged e-mails and promised to be friends forever, when the Indian gal dropped a bombshell on El Charro, “Digweed is playing across the street tonight.”
This meant nothing to me or El Angel Solo, but El Charro was going nuts. He could not in fact believe that “*$&%ing Digweed is playing here tonight?!?!”
I’ll explain: El Charro’s favorite genre of music is psytrance (psychedelic trance), stay with me people; pyschadelic trance is not the most popular genre of music, but in the little nexus of California drug addicts, hipsters, yuppies, and artists that listen to psytrance, Digweed is deified. According to El Charro he regularly charges 10,000 Yen (100 bucks) a head to a few thousand people to listen to him “spin.”
He was playing a really small show in the city of Fukuoka for the measly price of 50 bucks, and by measly I mean, “there’s no way in hell I’m paying 50 bucks to watch a guy play with turntables for a few hours.” El Charro was convinced fate had brought him to this moment in time to see Digweed, but I was convinced fate had brought us here to get drunk and have sex with random Japanese girls. These differences were becoming more irreconcilable by the minute. But just so you don’t gain any respect for me, I will fast forward to the next day a bit and say that none of us “got any” that night.
The other group split and we stood around trying to figure out what the hell we were going to do for the rest of the night. In the meantime my hands were feeling very light, almost ethereal, and as I searched through the darkness of my mind, into the shredded remnants of my soul, I realized…I wasn’t holding a beer. We went to 7-11 and remedied the situation.
Outside the 7-11 the same pile of degenerate Japanese dirtbags who reason forsook the lifestyle of the average Japanese teenager to early twenty something sat outside drinking and smoking cigarettes. Why they would want to give up a life consisting of studying during the day, during the night, during the weekends, and during vacation I’ll never know, but they had fantastic haircuts, trendy/slutty outfits on, and were getting drunker by the minute. We were comfortable here.
We were sitting on the curb blathering about something or other when El Charro’s whitedar went off again. An odd trio was walking in our direction. They turned out to be two Italian guys studying at Fukuoka University, with one of their Japanese classmates, who spoke very good English and acted as their unofficial interpreter. They were pretty interesting kids and we hit it off pretty well. As it turns out, right next to the bar Digweed was spinning, there was an R&B, hip-hoppy thing of some kind going on for 15 bucks. I was pretty much sold. That show started at around 10:30, and Digweed didn’t come on until around 2AM, at this point I was pretty much resigned to the fact that I would drunkenly agree to spend my not so hard earned money to see the show anyway.
As we found ourselves once again confronted with the problem of needing somewhere to continue drinking, my boy Louis showed up, and looking fine in a Camel Hair jacket (always trust a man wearing Camel hair…maybe not men who ride camels).
We start talking to Louis about this guy, Digweed, and his apparent pull within the psytrance community. Louis predictably knows the owner of “Air Bar” and goes to see if he can pull some strings for us. The night is rolling very smoothly. We get another beer and keep talking to our new Italian friends, and I can’t remotely remember what their names were. Ten minutes later Louis comes back downstairs, and he says he can get us all in for 3000 Yen (30 bucks) with two free drinks. Well hell yeah, that comes down to 20 bucks because I would have bought two drinks anyway. Louis will continue to be the man for the remainder of the evening.
It’s still only about 9:30 and the hip-hoppy party thing next door still doesn’t start for about an hour, so Louis offers us a free pitcher of beer at his “Salsa Bar.” I love this man. So we walk behind our Camel Haired leader for about ten minutes and walk into a bar on the third floor of a non-descript building. This is one of those weird juxtapositions that I may never forget, a few dozen Japanese men and women dancing to Salsa. I won’t remember it because it was bad and goofy, and characteristically arrhythmic Japanese. They were all really $&#*ing good at Salsa, and god damn does Salsa make a girl more attractive. Louis moved a bunch of patrons to different tables to make room for us, and the beer began flowing…like beer, from a tap…that pours beer. Listen, we’re not going for Hemmingway here.
El Angel Solo and I tried, and failed miserably, to Salsa. We just made a big mess of the dance floor, threw in a few “Sumemasen Gaijin” and fled the dance floor back to where the beer was being housed. Eventually the Italians and their Japanese friend went to the hip-hop thing and the rest of the fellowship ambled to the bar. It was still technically my birthday so Louis offered me a birthday shot, who knows what it was. At that moment, as the small glass clanged ritualistically on the bar top, I spotted the Japanese Holy Grail. Louis sold Cigars, and damn good cigars, behind the counter. Next to Japanese twins I could not think of a better birthday gift for myself. I bought a rather thick 6 inch Dominican, Don Esteban. Before I lit the birthday girl though, I had more important business to attend to:
“Louis, who is that?”
“Oh, the attractive girl?”
“No the 50 year old next to her. Of course the attractive girl.”
“She’s a salsa teacher, her name is blablabla (I don’t remember her name, and it doesn’t really matter anyway)”
“Can I get a free lesson?”
Louis called her over, and we were introduced, she was incredibly attractive, probably a bit older than me, but I was only half sure, and fully drunk. She spoke almost no English though, but she could probably understand a lot of what I was saying, if I spoke a little slower. Then she called the tall good looking guy who was another Salsa instructor over. El Angel Solo and I were treated to a free salsa lesson. I wasn’t half bad either, at least for the 3 or 4 extremely basic moves I was taught. Afterwards, we bounced to the Rap/R&B/Whatever it was and met up with the Italians.
I lit up the Cigar and we paid the entrance fee into the…frat house? In this nexus of well manicured bartenders, and pristinely designed clubs, this place had all the charm of a set from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. There were concrete floors and concrete walls with no decoration, a giant poorly constructed wooden bar, with nothing behind it. There were just a few bottles on the counter and a refrigerator full of beer next to it. The kids working the door and the bar were wearing hoodies and jeans, and for some reason the entire place reeked of a fine Dominican cigar. Oh, wait, that’s me. The dance floor was pretty large, and there were a dozen or so people mulling around in front of the stage. The stage consisted of four sets of turntables, with 4 DJ’s spinning simultaneously. Two guys seemed to specialize in scratching, while the other two were setting the rhythm and the playlist. It was like home away from home. Minus all the Asians I was back in the basement of my crack infested Binghamton ‘hood, and I drank accordingly.
The music wasn’t really my style, but the DJ’s know what they’re doing in Japan, and I started getting pretty into the set soon after we got there. We drank, and jibber-jabbered and talked for a while, and we still had an hour and a half or so until Digweed, so we decided to go back to Louis’ main bar across the street and grab some grub so to speak. We loaded up on American comfort food, Pizza, fries, burgers, etc…anything rolled in grease really appealed to me at this point. It was only about 1 AM and we’d been drinking for a solid 7 hours or so already, and the main event of the evening hadn’t even started yet. We paid for our food and grabbed the Italians and they’re Japanese friend, then we grabbed Louis and went to go seek the fruit of our social labors for the last two days.
As promised, Louis got us all in for 3,000 Yen, with 2 free drink tickets, double Jack and coke please. I’ll be honest at the risk of losing the respect and admiration of my adoring fans. I nursed this one for a while. This place was called “Air Bar” but it wasn’t one of those cheesy shot bars where you huff oxygen for an inflated yuppie price. They ripped you off the old fashion way, with exorbitant door fees and overpriced drinks. It was very American of them, so I appreciated it. The bar was two floors; the first floor was just a giant square dance floor. We all stumbled up the poorly lit stairs and inside, Digweed, the man of the hour, was not on yet, but the place was packed anyway. Within 30 seconds of entering the bar, Louis had maybe the most attractive Japanese girl I’ve ever seen leaning into him, hinging on his every romantic scream into her face, the man was smooth. We went to check out the upstairs, where the bar was. Apparently every white person in town had the same idea, because it looked like hurricane gaijin had scoured the neighborhood and dropped them in this room. We ran into most of the people from the group we’d met on the street, and other assorted grungy lookin’ foreigners were sprawled across the half dozen couches and 10 or so lazy boy looking contraptions.
I believe we had reached the point in the evening when we all felt much smoother than we actually were, because despite repeated attempts by all three members of the fellowship to hit on the opposite sex, we were instead dragged into inane conversations about our origins, purpose of visit, and plans for the future. It was like ten consecutive conversations with an alcoholic customs agent. We decided it would just be better to go downstairs and listen to some awesome music and dance for a while.
We got downstairs just as Digweed was starting his set, and I was blown away. He’s apparently ranked number 6 among worldwide psytrance DJ’s by a magazine that gives a #$*% about global psytrance DJ’s. But the dude was phenomenal anyway. I had been introduced to a lot of the genre by El Charro, and once you get into it, it is actually closer to classical music than anything else really. It’s insanely complex, multi-faceted, micro-managed like an orchestra, and thumps the breath right out of your chest. At first it all sounded exactly the same, varying levels of “thump, thump, thump, thump.” When you hear a really talented DJ though, they bring in the high notes, and the “obligatory line from an old science fiction movie,” and keep the music rotating and changing and shifting, like real music should.
Dancing to psytrance is a lot of fun too, because like me, none of them can really dance. But everybody is doing their own thing, nobody is standing against the walls judging me, or naturally, laughing at me. After an hour of constant movement, and 11 hours of constant drinking, I used my second bar coupon for a water, amazingly the same price as a beer without a ticket. We ended up shifting back and forth between Digweed and the “frat house” 3 or 4 times over the next couple of hours, chasing girls, or wanting to get off the crowded dance floor, or running from girls and wanting to get back on the crowded dance floor, and finally we went back outside the last time and it was past dawn. We got in a cab around 6 AM, and the drinking started at 6 PM. Our check out time in the hotel was in 5 hours, and we had a 3 to 4 hour drive in front of us…without getting lost. And did I mention, “I’m on anti-biotics, bitch!”
posted by Just1Wheat at
9:29 AM
