Tag Archives: friendship

We Turned New Orlean’s into Our Bitch

I’d like to start this by letting you all know that Homeboy always seems to be ordering pink drinks, he is perpetually sunburnt, he does not take himself or anyone else seriously and he reads out loud every sign that he sees.  He is also the only real friend I made when I was living out in Los Angeles.  The only person who truly cared about me there, during a time when I had no one.  So needless to say, he holds a special place in my heart.  I had only seen Homeboy once since I left California, (3.5 years ago) and it was while I was on tour, so that doesn’t count because trying to see people while on tour is a nightmare and if you can make it happen at all, it generally consists of meeting for coffee for thirty minutes and apologizing for your hygiene.  So Homeboy and I decided to get serious, and meet up in New Orleans to hang out and catch up on some friend time.  He was the absolute perfect person to go to the Big Easy with.  We definitely kicked NOLA’s ass.  Cut to the shitshow.

The most important things that happened on the first day was that I possibly gave Monterey staph infection, and Homeboy and I found our bar.  Monterey is a good friend of mine who was a fellow roadie on the ballet tours.  I spoke about him in Adventures of Touring Christmas Edition, and beautifully enough, he now lives in New Orleans.  He picked us up from the airport, showed us a bunch of shit and made me the best gin gimlet of my life at the swanky restaurant/bar he works at in the Quarter.  I knew it would be fancy because they spell Revolution, R’evolution in the name.  Monterey just got surgery on his clavicle, so when he picked us up, he was sitting shirtless in his fucking yellow car that he stole from his Dad, and attempting to bandage up the wound with one arm, his seatbelt still on and simultaneously taking hits from his apple pipe and subjecting tourists to his loud easy listening alt-rock blaring from the car.

Monterey.


That pathetic little scene was oddly cute and endearing, so my empathy which usually stays dormant in the base of my cold heart, became active and rose to the surface.  I sat on the center console and gently bandaged Monterey up as he told us about the sink holes on Canal Street that had sparked a renegade “Sink Hole de Mayo” party on May 5th.  I think that Homeboy is probably STILL laughing at that.  He always laughs so hard at the most rudimentary of jokes.  Monterey did ask me if I had washed my hands recently, to which I said yes, but then realized that in between washing my hands thirty minutes ago and now, I had touched countless items which would be considered a germaphobe’s nightmare, including hotel remote controls, which is a rule straight from the fucking bible I feel like… to sanitize after coming in contact with hotel television remotes.  Whatever.  To my knowledge, his shoulder hasn’t disintegrated yet, so I consider my temporary nursing career a success.

That night Homeboy and I attempted to go to this bar/jazz lounge called Maple Leaf, which seems to be a well known establishment.  There was a line, and he and I are both way too pretentious for that, so we immediately said, “Nope,” and walked into the bar next door, which only had five people in it.  Much more my style.  At this point, even though we had only been in the city for approximately five hours, we had probably already had ten drinks each, and homeboy had STILL not figured out that New Orlean’s traditional cocktails are mostly not good.  He probably ordered something with SoCo in it.  I tried to steer him away, but he didn’t learn until the third day that I am always right when it comes to decisions involving liquor.  I know everyone feels like they have to have a Hurricane while in the Big Easy, but why?  Gross, sweet, syrupy drinks do not geographically discriminate.

In the Quarter.


By the end of the night we were feeling gangster, so we were sipping on gin and juice’s once we rolled into what would become “our bar.”  It was superbly sketchy, located on the controversial Lee Circle, and seemed like it was an old house that someone decided to chuck a bar into and the city just doesn’t give a shit.  Actually, New Orleans seems to have zero laws or permits when it comes to alcohol.  Love.  I call NOLA the Wild West.  You can basically do whatever you want.  From what I’ve observed, there is minimal infrastructure, laws are nominal, sewage is still something that civilians have to deal with, no one gives a shit about liabilities, the colors and architecture are unlike anywhere else and people sing and dance when they want to and it’s not weird.  Basically, in a lot of ways, New Orleans functions like a Second or Third World country.  People complain that it’s dirty… which it is, literally and metaphorically, but I thrive on filth.  The city seems to open its’ arms to all eccentricities, making it such a beautiful freak show.


Anyway, the only reason why we knew that our bar was a bar and not a house, was because there was a sign outside that simply said BAR.  That’s it.  I was immediately in love.  Then when I saw that they had Old Overholt Rye whiskey, and that they were heavy handed with it, I knew I was home sweet home.

The next day, Homeboy was having a rough time.  Too much gin.  I love gin, but I know to be cautious with it because gin is a terrible hangover, only second to wine.  I wasn’t exactly bright eyed and bushy tailed, but I chugged half of a warm beer in the morning and was ready to take the day head-on.  Homeboy high-fived me and said, “I’m impressed,” while he probably threw-up in his mouth a little bit just at the thought of drinking a beer for breakfast.  Monterey brought us to breakfast at a joint called Elizabeth’s, which I highly recommend, then we rolled up to a drive-thru daiquiri shop, and enjoyed taking a scenic route around town with alcoholic beverages and an apple pipe.  Wild West.  Then Homeboy and I went on a cemetery tour where we met Shiela, who was one of my favorite frumpy middle aged white women.  Maybe Homeboy and I were just drunk, but we were cracking up at a lot of what she was saying, while all of the other chumps stayed silent and smoked electronic cigarettes.  Other than the cemeteries being above ground, the other interesting thing is that multiple people are in the mausoleums, and not necessarily all family.  As Shiela put it, “you can shop around” for a tomb you like.  When a new casket goes in, the old one is taken out, the bones removed, and then thrown back in there, along with the new casket and all of the other bones.  It’s a damn party in those things!

Shiela!


That night we found a 24 hour gem called St. Charles Tavern.  A fair amount of bars are open 24 hours there, and what is also great is a lot of them seem to serve food and all of them have liquor because as I said, I don’t think a liquor license is a thing there.  I went full blown NOLA and got fried catfish and red beans and rice.  It was beautiful.  I don’t even remember what Homeboy got because I was busy having a love affair with my plate.  The next place we stumble upon was called Lucky’s Bar.  Honestly, I didn’t remember the name of it at first, but I just did a google map search and found “Lucky’s Bar: saloon with live music and laundromat.”  Yes!  I totally forgot that they had a full blown laundromat in the back!  Homeboy and I didn’t really understand what this meant, but we just chalked it up to “hashtag, NOLA” when we saw some early twenty-something year-old’s emerging from the back with laundry baskets and basketball shorts on.  The best hashtag NOLA thing we came across was a car parked literally in the middle of the road, just not giving a fuck.  Back to Lucky’s, we just thought we were sitting and having a drink at some random bar, but immediately after our drinks were poured, someone came to the mic and announced that it was stand-up comedy open mic night.  Homeboy and I looked at each other and started cracking up.  He does stand-up in Los Angeles, so of course, of all of the bars that we could have walked into, we go into that one.  Without words, it became crystal clear that he would HAVE to sign up.  So we stuck around there and he drank his weight in Hendrick’s gin and went up and did the best stand-up of the night.  Of course, we ended the night at our bar and then stumbling back into the hotel room where I forced him to listen to Jack White songs until we passed out.

The third day, and again, Homeboy was sucking at being a pro drinker.  He was not feeling great, but we still got up and went to Cafe Du Monde to get beignets and figure out our game plan.  We decided to walk for years, to go to the garden district.  I drank a beer on the walk and Homeboy got more sunburnt on the walk and then fell in love with a fucking cuban sandwich that he purchased at a corner store.  I swear that sandwich was his favorite part of the trip.  I just had another beer.  After a few more miles down the road, we ran into a Whole Foods and Homeboy made the executive decision that I needed to eat.  I like when guys kind of take control like that.  I wasn’t drunk or anything, but we had just walked six miles and I had only consumed a piece of friend dough, a beer for breakfast and a beer for lunch, so he basically made me get some vegetables into my world.  He was very right.  I immediately felt better.  He got Kombucha like such a white person.  This is in no way relevant to anything, but I just have to mention that there was an entire cooler for all of the different Kombucha’s.  There must have been at least 40 different flavors, and Homeboy picked the very last flavor I would have chosen.  It was some green bullshit with the word algae and living in the name.

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That damn cuban sandwich.

Later that night we finally made it to Bourbon O. so that Homeboy would shut the fuck up about meeting this guy named Eric.  One of Homeboy’s friends from Los Angeles is from New Orleans, and she told us that we should go visit her brother who works in the Quarter at a bar called Bourbon O.  Well, this was Homeboy’s number one mission.  I was down because whatever, it’s not like it was cramping my style or anything.  I just thought it was a potentially awkward confrontation.  Actually, I hoped that it would be awkward.  I pictured Homeboy walking in and saying to Eric, “I’m Punchy’s friend!” and Eric just being like, “cool, man” and then we just sit there looking at him like assholes.  That’s what I wanted to happen just because he had been talking this meeting up so much!  However, Eric turned out to be a cool motherfucker, and the bar turned into one of our favorite spots.  So, if you’re ever in New Orleans, give Eric at Bourbon O. a high five, drink one of their moscow mules (they make their own ginger beer and it’s the best I have ever had) and stick around and listen to the band because they had some of the best live jazz that we came across.

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Jazz at Bourbon O.

The next morning was when I turned into New Orlean’s bitch for over an hour.  I had passed out in my dress, and woke up needing to take a shower and wash my hair so I could begin functioning like a human again.  I needed stuff from a Walgreens or wherever to make that happen, so I just threw some sunglasses on (because I didn’t feel like taking the time to remove the eye crust and smeared eyeliner) and some ridiculous boot/sandal shoes and walked out the door, leaving Homeboy alone with his continental breakfast.  According to google maps, there was a CVS 0.2 miles away.  Perfect.  SOMEHOW this turned into an hour walk at 8:00 in the god damn morning while wearing a tiny dumb dress and my hair piled on my head like a friggen gypsy whore.  Once I realized how lost I was, I didn’t even care about the shower anymore, and just wanted to find a Daiquiri shop.  Turns out, I was in the only part of New Orlean’s that doen’t have a bar every fourteen feet.  I’m sure I was quite a spectacle for the construction workers that I kept passing due to my temporary inability to decipher North, South, East and West.

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I took a picture of my pathetic reflection.  8:00am HOT MESS.

After I got my life together, we walked out to Bywater, which is a neighborhood of New Orleans.  There, in essence, we bar hopped from dive bar to dive bar, but it was a great time.  Everyone we met was prime.  Other people might say, “everyone was so nice!”  To which… sure, everyone was nice, but normal nice can be kind of boring.  I mean, most people can be described as “nice” in one way or another, so that word is such a useless description, in my book.  People are much friendlier in the South, that’s a more effective description.  They want to talk to you and it’s not just an act or a means to get something they want from you.  The people in New Orleans are real and genuine and make visiting there such a good experience.

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Dive in Bywater.

That night we went to Frenchman Street, which is a congregated area of lots of bars with live music.  My Heaven.  I love jazz, but I love real Blues even more.  Like every big city, there is a lot of music, so you have to sift through the garbage to find the gems.  This is my field.  Live music shows is when I am in my element.  I took the reigns and found us a hole in the wall that had two men city in the corner with a slide guitar, a three piece drum kit and a microphone.  That’s it.  With just the combination of those three sounds, these guys pulled at my heart strings and stole me away.  I was good after that.  I let Homeboy make every decision from that point on because I felt completed in my New Orleans adventure after listening to twenty minutes of blues from two men in a moldy corner.

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Random mural near Frenchman Street.

The next morning, Monterey took me to breakfast again, and showed me the part of the city that had been hit the worst by the Katrina flooding.  Where full neighborhoods once were, there is a sporadic, obviously new house with solar panels.  In between those, there are rows and rows of empty lots with overgrown grass and the occasional stack of a few bricks from what was once a base for someone’s home.  The people and the city is still deeply effected by the disaster.  You see it everywhere.  Every local we spoke with, mentioned something about Katrina at least once in casual conversation.  Pre Katrina and Post Katrina are two very different periods to those who live in New Orleans.

It’s a remarkable city with a lot of history and if you have never been, definitely get your ass down to Louisiana.

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My Mornings with Fat Face

It’s beginning to feel like a big chunk of my days are spent waiting for Fat Face to either wake up or get off from work so that he can answer my questions about the night before. This is what my life has been reduced to.

After a big night out, meaning after Fat Face and I have drank like the world is coming to an end and played with sidewalk chalk or jumped into some body of water and laughed at the word vag at least ten times (and other behaviors generally associated with twelve year old’s), I generally wake up somewhere between 7:00 and 8:00 and have a ton of questions I need to ask Fat Face, so I get so impatient when I have to wait until 1:00pm before I can begin to figure out my life again. I antagonize him regularly about how he does not wake up until after noon, to which he always says, “I get it Caitlin, you’re an adult and I’m a child.” Currently, I am trying to figure out where the fuck my comforter is. How does one lose a huge bed comforter?

If he passes out out at my place, I almost always get up in the morning still drunk, and go to work. Fat Face will kind of sit up for a second, with this face that looks like he was literally just born, like he knows and understands nothing of this life, and will begin to put on his stupid pizza socks and will mumble about how I’m being way too loud. “Oh my God. Can you just stop talking,” he’ll often say to me.

Because I am still drunk, so my very many questions have not yet manifested, and because I don’t think that he becomes a full human again until three o‘ clock in the afternoon so trying to communicate with him before that time is futile, I leave for work before we have a chance to discuss the events of the evening prior. He goes to McDonald’s and gets fat food (which is what we call junk food), then goes home and passes back out while I eat a low-fat yogurt and slave away behind a bar.

Only a couple of weeks ago, if I didn’t know better, I would have thought that I was drugged. I had so many questions including, did I hook up with anyone, where are my bed sheets, where is my wallet and should I never show my face again at the bar that we were at? I was SO annoyed when Fat Face didn’t call me back before he went into his evening shift at work, so I had to wait until 11:00 at night, before I had a few answers about what the hell happened the night before and if it was possible that I needed to get an STD panel. Kidding!

This is what I woke up to that morning:
“Can you look at how gross you are right now?!”

Fat Face was literally on top of me, yelling that into my face, waking me up just so that he could point out how disgusting I was. I had thrown-up off the side of my bed, which I don’t even a little bit recall, so there was vomit all over the floor and in parts of my hair. It was not cute. I just started laughing. He was not much better, he was green and while I was getting ready for work, he kept going outside to throw-up into my flower bed. He had to drive me to my car because I was way too drunk to drive home the night before, and he had to pull over on the way so that he could throw-up and I was laughing and taking pictures of him. I shouldn’t say that he pulled over because what he actually did was stop in the middle of the damn road, open his door and barf onto the street. Instead of pulling off on a side street like a half-way respectable person, he just pulled into the middle turning lane and flung the door open while cars zoomed past. I was definitely still drunk during this whole process, because I got to work and was pretty okay until around noon, that’s when the Beefeater really started to kick my ass. I think it was five times that I had to run to the bathroom to quickly throw-up in between making Bloody Mary’s for the annoyingly chipper bar patrons.

I think that it’s safe to say that I’m a seasoned drinker, so I very rarely puke from alcohol consumption, and this level of atrophy is one of the things that made me think that I had been drugged. I hadn’t been sick and hung-over like that since I was a freshman in college. Even more disturbing than that, I do not remember even finishing my second drink. Second drink! Are you kidding me? It usually takes a few drinks before I even have a good buzz, so I do not understand how it is that I was blackout drunk after 1.5 drinks. Something odd must have just been going on with my body that night because there is no way I was drugged. I was only with Fat Face, and we were at a bar that we’ve been to a million times, being served by a bartender who has served us a million times and surrounded by geriatrics. It looked like it was Bingo night in there. Apparently, we had a great time though! Once I finally got in touch with Fat Face, he informed me that we were dancing in front of the jukebox, fake humping each other and playing a game of, who can embarrass the other the worst? Yes, we have grown less mature with age.

When I got back home after work that day, I discovered that my bed sheets were gone. I’m assuming that in the morning, when I was still drunk and cleaning up my vomit, that I took them off of the bed, but I have no idea where they went. I must have thrown them away. Who does that?! I’m sure my intentions were to put them in the laundry, but I clearly failed. My whole day was out of whack because I feel like I spent most of it waiting for answers from Fat Face, though he didn’t provide much. I found old bed sheets that I’ve been using, but I still have not replaced my pillow cases and have been using an uncovered pillow.

The only reason why I have even sat down to write this entry, is because I’m killing time while I’m currently waiting for Fat Face to call me back about last nights questions. I seem to have trouble with sleep-time essentials when I’m wasted because this morning, after Fat Face and I had a night of breaking into the neighbors pool at 3:00am and thinking that it would be a good idea to get sandwiches from a gas station, I could not find my bed comforter and I don’t understand what I wore to bed. When I got home from work, I discovered that my bed had no blanket on it at all, so I texted Fat Face, “where the fuck is my comforter?” Of course, no response because it was 4:00 in the afternoon and way too early for him. Later, I found my clothes that I had been wearing laying on my living room table. I definitely woke up clothed, but I don’t remember in what and I want to make sure that I was at no point naked for some absurd reason during the night. Another text to Fat Face, “do you know why my clothes are on the living room table?”

Five hours later and I finally get a reply from Fat Face (he had been at work) which says, “Don’t care. But I’m growing a tale from swimming in that septic pool water last night.” To my comforter question, he just said, “Jesus Christ,” as if he is some superior Sober Sally in the situation, and then went on to tell me that he was, “having a love affair with an ice cream sandwich.” Cool. Good talk.

Still unclear if he does in fact know the answers to my questions, but I’m sure that I’ll forget about them in a few days when Fat Face and I have yet another long night which will start the cycle all over of me wasting my day waiting for him to reply to me, even though I know that he will ultimately not provide me with many answers.

I’d like to quickly inform all that Fat Face honestly believed that black people make up 50% of the American population. I definitely remember that discussion because it was quite a sobering moment. “Fat Face, they are a MINORITY.”
“Okay…” he says, “so like 48%.”
“WHAT?! It’s probably like 20% at the most.”
“Caitlin, are you kidding me?”
“Are you kidding me?! You think that there is one black person for every white person here? You are being so embarrassing right now. Don’t say that out loud anymore because you sound retarded.”
“Whatever.”

I ended up googling it for him later, to which we learned that black people make up 17.7% of the American population. He’s not the only one who learned a valuable lesson that night. I learned that it is not possible to finish a 750 piece puzzle in one evening. Me believing that may have been equally as asinine and delusional as Fat Face believing that African Americans make up half of the U.S. population. I am definitely never letting him live that down.

Any eligible woman out there, don’t let his embarrassing oversight perturb you. He is still hot and single and has a clap on/off lamp and even manages to make mundane activities like doing puzzles, a lot of fun. Oh, and the only photograph he has up in his whole house is a framed baby picture of himself.

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Extinguishing a Wildfire

“Rory” came into my life like a wildfire. It was at a time when I was really craving someone who didn’t have walls, and that boy dropped in and not only was unbound, but even tore down some of my walls. Rory is a boy from home who I have had a crush on since I saw him break out into serious dance moves while snapping his fingers and singing a Jay Z song in the middle of a public restaurant. Tonight wasn’t like that though. Tonight he held my hand, looked me in the eye and bashfully shook his head, “yes.”

I knew what this meant. He prefaced it with, “I need to talk to you about something,” and with just that, there was enough clues to guess what he was about to tell me due to process of elimination.

I haven’t seen this boy in a few months because I have been on the road with work. We got pretty close pretty fast last time I was home, but it was one of those situations which I often discuss, where we had to take a deep breath, pretend to be okay, and accept the fact that this was only going to be temporary because I was leaving soon. I have gotten really good at doing that, but I’m not going to lie… it really sucked having to do that with Rory. He had somehow found his way into my bloodstream.

I am fascinated with the notion of finding a word for everyone. A single word that best sums up a person. When and if you can figure out someone’s word, everything about them kind of falls into place and makes more sense. The thing that I most admire about Rory, and what I think that his word may be, is that he is unafraid. I’m sure that he has his fears, but he is truly comfortable with himself, and I think that is very rare. In a generation that is utterly controlled by the fear of ourselves and or inability to come out from behind the curtain and fucking live, Rory is not one of those people. He is not scared of the world. Rory laughs and dances when he wants and makes a fool out of himself and admits when he farts and admits when he’s sad and admits when he doesn’t know the capital of Texas and fucking looks at you when he wants you and runs and sweats and bleeds and tries. He is one of the few people who I wish the whole world could know.

It wold be easier if I could call the night a date, but it wasn’t a date because that’s not really our style. So I guess the simplest way to put it is that Rory came over to hang out one night several months ago and it turned into one of the greatest “hang out’s” I’ve had as an adult. One that all others will forever be compared to.

We started playing music really loud. We were taking turns listening to each others selection, and I’m use to most people just taking over in those situations, and you end up only listening to their choices. Not with Rory. He was equally as enthusiastic about the music I was sharing as he was about his. By the way, he’s a musician. Of fucking course.

We went onto the porch and he opened up about his home life and his hopes and his shady past and it turned into the type of conversation I had been craving for a long time.  It was completely unguarded. The boys in my life at that point seemed to all be the type that purposely don’t talk about anything real. They had walls.  For example, one guy I had been seeing sort of off and on for a year and a half, I would say that we were just as close after a year and a half as we were in the first month of meeting. We never progressed. I’m all for discussing existentialism and politics and watching documentaries and going to comedy shows, but sometimes you have to throw in some true grit for a relationship of any type to progress. In a way, I felt closer to Rory in one week than I did the guy I had been seeing for over a year because Rory’s not scared, and told me things that were real.

We then made up a secret handshake, played a card game and threw jellybeans into each others mouth. After that, it was really late, but I wanted to show him something, so I said, “Are you tired or….?” and he looked at me and said, “I’m down to do anything with you.”

We were having such a perfect time so neither of us wanted it to end. I was barefoot, and we walked to the pier, collecting rocks along the way. We were like two little kids, trying to find the best rock. It was the time of year when you can see the bioluminescence in the water if you create a wake and I wanted to show him. I figured he would appreciate it but that’s an understatement, you should have seen his face when we threw the first rock in. He got so excited, that raw enthusiasm that you only see in children. There’s that line from Knocked Up, when Paul Rudd is looking at his kids playing with the bubbles and he says, “I wish I liked anything as much as my kids like bubbles.” Well, I wish that I got as excited about anything the way that Rory got excited about those damn bioluminescence. It was so refreshing to see.

Of course, just to add the perfection, it was a big, orange, low hanging moon that night. So Rory and I threw rocks into the sparkling water under the glow of the moonlight until there were no more rocks to throw. On the walk back, I was a few paces in front of him, and he grabbed my hand and pulled me into him. At first I thought he was going to kiss me, but that’s too predictable for Rory. Instead, he started dancing with me in the middle of the road.

Now back at the house and blasting my test song. I call it my test song because it’s the song that I use to test speakers with. I know exactly what “Comfortable Liar” by Chevelle should sound like, and it has fairly dynamic tones and this kind of hidden thunderous quality  making it good for sound checking. It also makes it perfect for laying on the floor in the middle of the music room with a beautiful boy next to you and pounding your fists onto the hard wood floor to the beat of the song. Rory and I just wailed our fists onto the ground for the entire song.  It may not sound like much, but if you try to imagine laying on your stomach, next to a person you have a crush on, and allowing the music to fully take you over while you bang on the floor with all of your might to the beat… you really do need to be unafraid to be able to do that.  Rory brings out the spark in everyone.

We had another really great night a few days after that, which included dive bar pool, Budweiser, Eminem on the jukebox and a big black woman named Sweet Melissa.  Then I left town. It has been about five months since then, and I have done three tours in that time, putting me on the road for almost all of those five months. And so it goes. Now I’m sitting at the corner of a bar as Rory tells me that he needs to talk to me about something. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew that he was about to tell me that he got a girl pregnant. He grabbed my hand, and I could see that he was having a hard time saying it, so I just smiled and told him that I was pretty sure that I knew what he was going to say, to which he just looked me in the eye, smiled back and bashfully shook his head yes.  And now I guess it’s time to put out this wildfire.

So here we are, and here’s to change, and here is a playlist for the boy who is unafraid.

http://8tracks.com/goldenlullaby/for-the-boy-who-is-not-afraid

 

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Valentine Edition 2 of 2

…continued from Edition 1

After having really good friend chem and vibing well again with Hunter at this festival he says to me, “Let’s go into the middle and get weird.”  How would you take that?  I assumed that he meant let’s go deep into the crowd and cause a ruckus. We’ll be obnoxious and dance and laugh and all of that goofy shit.  Cool, I’m down.  So he grabs my hand and leads me into the very center of the crowd. He then places me in front of him and pushes against me and I can feel his penis on my back. Ew.

I’m WAY to passive, and instead of leaving right then, I just kind of stepped forward so that I was no longer in contact with him, and was silently trying to figure out a way to dip out without making it awkward. Approximately two seconds later, before I could properly asses my predicament, he took my hand and pulled it behind my back, and put it around his dick. I swear to fucking God that this guy took his whole dick out in the middle of a crowd of people while this show was taking place. I could not believe that this was happening. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I just quickly reclaimed my hand and ran away.  I say “ran,” I couldn’t make a very quick exit because there were so many damn people in the way, so I did hear him shout to me, “did I offend you?” To which I didn’t even waste my time with, and kept walking then exited the festival wishing that The Trojan was with me.

Did you offend me? I think on the grand spectrum of the offensive scale, you offended me on every level, yes. Not going to waste anymore time discussing that. It makes me sick.

Like I said, I was sober, but having a cocktail alone at a bar to take a moment to wrap my mind around what just happened seemed appealing. I took a seat at a bar stool and called Fat Face. He knew that something had transpired, he knows me well and knows my vocal tones, so I think he knew that he needed to come to my rescue. I downed two whiskeys by the time he got there, and he took a seat next to me, told me that I, “look really pretty tonight,” (which I thought was super sweet because we don’t often talk like that too each other. Usually he’d say something more like, ‘oooo girl, you are lookin’ damn fine tonight!’ and laugh) and ordered a Yuengling. I told him what happened, and he was appalled. He said that I am absolutely too passive and should have squeezed Hunter’s dick off. We went on to have a relatively deep conversation that made me feel a little bit better. Well, kind of. Fat Face’s presence always makes me feel better, but the conversation concluded that there is something wrong with me.  There is something I must unintentionally do to attract that type of male degradation.  According to Fat Face, shit like this doesn’t happen to other people as much as it does me.  He then invited me to go to some other bar with him where he was meeting up with some of his work friends that I don’t know.

My initial response was something like, no I should leave you alone… I might cock block you tonight if I’m with you, considering it’s Valentine’s Day and all. He put his arm around me and said, “Cait, shut the fuck up.” So I shut the fuck up and followed him to a nearby bar. I was a good girl and made small talk with his friends who I liked and Fat Face and I did our typical thing… I spit in his drink, he did some bell hops, we argued over music, made fun of other bar patrons and harassed each other until closing time. Typical.

When we were leaving, I spotted a man who could not walk heading toward his truck. I don’t know that I have ever seen anyone as drunk as this guy was. He somehow got in his truck, which made me nervous, turned on the ignition, but then just passed out cold. Cool. He’s not driving. Normally I don’t get involved with shit like that, but it was definitely my moral duty to my fellow citizens to not let this guy on the road. I was being chill, and figured that I’d knock on his window and tell him that I’m calling him a cab. Problem solved.

Of course Fat Face gets all involved though and thinks that it’s a good idea to go inform the bartenders inside. Fat Face doesn’t give a shit about anything, I could call him telling him that my house is burning down and he’d be like, “I’m taking a nap.”  For some reason though, of all the things that he could get invested in, he decides to get all up in arms about this and try to man the fuck out of this situation. I just rolled my eyes and let him think that he was doing the right thing after he failed to agree when I made the point that the bartenders will do zero things to help this. However, Fat Face tells them anyway, and next thing you know, there are two schmucks that look like the type who failed out of Police Academy had overheard Fat Face talking to the bartenders, and who are now over there also trying to man the situation and get involved in the action. For some dumbass reason they wake the dude up and tell him that he should go. What the fuck? I was pissed. Fat Face and I watched in horror as the guy started driving.
“Watch him run into the building,” Fat Face says jokingly. Two seconds later, “Oh my God he’s really going to run into the building.”  The guy doesn’t even pretend to turn out of the parking space, and instead slowly rolls forward, smashing into the glass window facade of a brand new gym that is one door down from the bar. Tight.

Fat Face is now getting all frantic saying, “Cait. Call 911. Cait! Cait! Call 911!” Jesus Christ Fatty, shut the fuck up, I’m on it. So I call 911 and have a nice chat with them as a fight starts breaking out. What a douchebag bar scene. That’s when I told the dispatcher that I was peacing out of there. Once someone got knocked out cold, and was laying in the middle of the street unconscious for a scary amount of time, I informed dispatch that I couldn’t wait for the cops because things were getting sketchy, and she told me the fire department was on their way. As we were pulling out, the fire trucks were pulling in and Fat Face giggled with delight and said, “I kind of feel like I caused this.” Yes you absolutely did, you twat.

And that was my Valentine’s Day of 2015. A perfect exchange with a cute boy, a terrible onslaught by a gross man and a Cait and Fat Face adventure.

To be perfectly honest, after that rollercoaster of a night, I was glad, and felt it was oddly appropriate that I ended up with Fat Face on Valentine’s night because after all of my adventures and confessions… and no matter who I am fucking or loving or currently dating, Fat Face is always my favorite person to end up with at the end of the day.  True friendship is the most romantic thing of all.

I stayed the night over his place because it seemed like the responsible thing to do. He lives close to the bar and at this point, I had been drinking and knew it was not a good idea to drive all the way home. I would like to take this moment to let all of you know that Fat Face not only has one zebra printed bed comforter, but two. He also has a Chik-fil-a calendar hanging on his wall and for some absurd reason, about 15 boxes of Milano cookies sitting next to his bed. Again, Fat Face is hot and single and I will provide his contact information to any eligible women.

Update!  The following fucking day, I saw Michael.  Jesus Christ, talk about 36 hours of testosterone overload.  Someone pour me a drink.

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Holden: Some Songs and a Story

Holden. A fake name for a very real boy. The first time I remember seeing him was at Ace of Spades in Sacramento, California. I must have seen him the day before, because Sacramento was the second date of the tour, but my earliest recollection of Holden is watching him watch, in the dark corner of the black and red venue.

A few days ago I got done with a tour where I met a lot of wonderful people. People who I really didn’t want to say goodbye to, people who made me feel at home on the road and people who truly excited me. There is a lot to be said about last month, but this is not the time for that. While on the roof of some apartment in Los Angeles, I was discussing with one of the guy’s that I have become really good at letting people go, to which he responded, “that’s kind of fucked up.”

Maybe he’s right, but like I discuss in A Temporary Home, it comes with the lifestyle, and it’s necessary otherwise you’ll break your own heart. I’ve learned to recognize when someone is special, and just enjoy the little time that I do have with the person and when that time is up, you let them go. Sometimes though, I meet someone who makes that pretty fucking difficult. I did meet someone like that on this past tour, but like I said, it is not the time to tell that story. However, it did get me thinking about other people I have said goodbye to along the way, so in honor of retrospect, I am going to tell you about Holden, a boy I met on tour in the spring of 2014, and I haven’t seen or spoken to him since.

I’m not sure what my very first thought was when I saw him, but I had a few.

One, he’s drinking alone, which I liked. Well, kind of alone. As alone as you can be when you’re inside of the venue that you’re playing at that night. He would entertain some passing females for a few minutes here and there, and I could tell that he was smooth. I watched him do that thing where you casually place your hand on someone’s arm or side as you lean in to put your ear closer to them in an attempt at conversation in a loud venue. That can be repulsive if a guy does it wrong, but I could tell he had that shit down. Even with his good moves though, he stayed leaning at this bar counter, and continue watching the show by himself and let the girls walk away.

Two, he looked like a douche.

Three, but an incredibly good looking douche. Now that I know him, I think that Holden is one of the most beautiful boys that I’ve ever met, but at first glance, I was sure that I was NOT going to like this guy despite his James Dean appearance. He had a piercing on his face, and just this look that kind of screamed, I’m trying. I was very wrong.

Four, there’s something else though. Something else must have ran through my mind because I still decided to say something to him. Maybe I figured that I was going to be on the road with this dude for four months, so I might as well get the first introductory conversation out of the way. He was not in the band that I was working for, so we were not on the same bus, but his band was the direct support, so we were still going to be traveling together (it was a four band tour package) for many months.

I had been watching this… couple(?) all night. I hesitate to say couple because I’m 90% sure that they were on a second date, or something close to that. I don’t know how to describe what this chick was doing, but it was one of the most embarrassing things that I have ever seen. Basically, she was trying to dance on this guy and be sexy, but just failing at it so hard. It looked like she was attempting to give a lap dance despite the fact that the guy was standing up. She kept trying to jump on him, and then dry hump him I guess…? It was such a catastrophe. I was literally laughing out loud at this brilliant sight, but there was no one else who seemed to be witnessing it.

Like I’ve said many times, I hate small talk, so I figured I’d use this moment to speak to Holden so we could skip the formalities and dive straight into making fun of people together. Holden was about 15 feet away from my merch table, so I motioned to him to come over. The very first thing I said to him was something like, “Have you seen this couple over here?”

Holden: “The dancing chick?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Holden: “Oh I’ve been watching them all night,” he said with a lot of enthusiasm.

I fucking liked him immediately. I was so unprepared for him to have the same sense of humor as me, and to be on the exact same page as I was in that moment that I was kind of taken aback. As much as I hate talking, I am generally pretty good at conversation IF I decide to make an effort, but in those first moments with Holden, I did stumble a bit.

During the course of the tour, we went on to become fairly close. I don’t know that I have ever been so attracted to someone who I didn’t need to kiss. It was weird, I felt like I had a crush on him, but it was a very platonic type of crush. If that can even be a thing. I didn’t want to be with him and didn’t think about holding his hand or kissing him or fucking him or any of those things that you think about when you are into someone. But, he did kind of make me nervous, and I loved being around him. So I don’t know what the fuck to call how I felt about Holden. A “platonic crush” is the only thing I can come up with.

In a way, I think everyone kind of had a crush on him. I even heard the English Hooligan describe him as a “sweetheart” once, which I have never heard him call anyone else before or since. My fondness for him was no secret. I would regularly announce, “I’m in love with Holden,” to everyone (including him a couple of times I think) when I would see him by himself playing an arcade game, or sitting on the ground smoking a cigarette with a strand of hair falling into his face River Phoenix style, and those times when he said, “one second,” and then would walk a few feet away from us, vomit, and then turn right back around and join the circle again laughing, and take another shot of whiskey. Holden turned liquor into his bitch. It was outstanding. With that being said, that boy had some demons.

When you yourself are haunted, I think it’s pretty easy to spot another soul who is drowning in their own poison. On an afternoon in Philly, we ducked into a bar for a couple of beers, and he told me some of his tale which I won’t repeat here because it felt private, but I could feel that part of his past was eating him alive. But my God, he was such a beautiful disaster.

Holden is the type that somehow makes self-destruction look glamorous. I know that is terrible to say, but unfortunately, often times most interesting characters are the ones that are at constant war with themselves. I don’t want to make it sound like he was some depressive basket-case. He was always in a good mood and was always a good time, but I have a sixth sense about these things, and I could just tell that there was a lot going on underneath the surface. I used to love watching Holden on stage. Him and one of the guitar players would always smile at each other, and I’d often see them laughing about something, and it just looked like they were having so much fun. He belongs on stage.

I have this random memory of him, and it’s so seemingly insignificant that I don’t know why it stuck with me. We had a day off, so a few of us took a boat and jet ski out. We were out in the middle of the water and someone would take the jet ski for a few minutes, come back to the boat, and switch riders. EVERY TIME the new rider would drive away, they would unintentionally splash those of us on the boat with the fountain of water that jet skis create out the back. Even though everyone knew that this happened, and despite that they all tried to get far enough away so that the splash wouldn’t hit anyone, it did every time. Except when Holden got on. He was the only one who got the jet ski far enough away so that he didn’t splash anyone before taking off. That might seem minor, but for some reason it stuck with me.

Holden had good taste in music too. One of the very first conversations we had, one of the things that got brought up was the local music scene in the town where he is from. I asked him to make me a recommendation of a local, and he almost immediately said, “John Moreland.” I liked that he answered me so quickly. Often when you ask someone to give you a music recommendation on the spot, they shy away from the question.

So, I listened to John Moreland that night, and I fell in love with him, which made me fall in love with Holden. “Break My Heart Sweetly” is possibly the saddest song I have ever heard, and it seems oddly appropriate that I heard it due to Holden. It’s always sexy when the very first thing that someone tells you to listen to really hits home. It feels like you’ve found a kindred spirit. He went on to consistently give me good music recommendations, which brings me to the conclusion of this vignette. My retrospection of Holden inspired me to make a playlist. So this one is for Holden, the boy who broke my heart sweetly during the spring of 2014, and I’m so fucking glad that he did.

http://8tracks.com/goldenlullaby/raise-your-glass-to-retrospection

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With a Little Help from My Friends

I fucking started a fire with my bare hands.  I feel very primal and in touch with nature right now, and I think that I should go catch some game using a handmade booby trap Apocalypto style.  Side note, that is an excellent, and very underrated movie.  Trust me, I went to art school.  Anyway, I feel that I deserve so many cookies for starting that damn fire, but the delicious margarita Fat Face and I shared post fire session sufficed.

I was able to complete my 2014 New Year’s Resolution with a little help from my friends. Yes, I was a few days late, as I didn’t do this until January 5th of 2015… but that’s my style and it still counts because I feel like there is a week grace period with matters such as these. A lot of people are not into making yearly resolutions, but I think that’s because they set their sights too high and it generally just ends in feeling like a failure at the conclusion of the year. I feel like a failure for the majority of the year, so I like making small, realistic resolutions for my New Year’s goal so that I can at least feel accomplished for one of the 365 days.  I make resolutions such as floss more, learn to play a song on the piano, teach myself how to use photoshop, etc.  Pretty simple.  As I stated in Merch Girl Rant, my 2014 resolutions were to be nicer to strangers (which I truly believe I made progress in) and build a fire with my bare hands.

Here it was though, December of 2014 and I still had yet to build a fire. I mentioned this resolution to a couple of the guys who were on the crew bus with me and they were full supporters of helping me complete my goal. Monterey, who I spoke about in A Christmas Story, purchased a Swedish FireSteel igniter for me, and the LD of the crew gave me some helpful tips because he was a boy scout. Always trust a boy scout.

This is the sexy instrument that Monterey bought me which ignites the flame.

This is the sexy instrument that Monterey bought me which ignites the flame.

The three of us definitely would have made this happen, but the tour we were on together is a particularly grueling one with very little down time.  The only two days that we had off it was raining, and before we knew it, the tour was wrapped.  It ended  December 31, and then I went on a mini hiatus before returning home on the 4th of January.

I felt slightly disappointed in myself for not completing my 2014 resolution, and I knew that this was not going to help with my post tour blues.  “Post tour blues” is a term I think I’ve coined.  I won’t go into a lengthy description of what it is because I think it’s pretty self-explanatory, and anyone who tours will know exactly what I mean.  I’ll leave the discussion for another day.  I get the post tour blues BAD and while we were only days away from wrapping the gig, I asked Monterey if he experiences PTB.  He told me that he has, but he has taught himself how to avert it.  He makes sure to set himself little goals of what he needs to get done while he’s home.  Essentially a to-do list to keep yourself busy, but boys don’t make lists.  I thought that was great advice, and like a total female… I wrote out a list.  Number one, build a damn fire you piece of shit.

I will only be home for four days before heading out for the next tour, so I had already accepted that these days were going to be packed with real life shit.  I know that’s not a particularly eloquent way of putting it, but it gets the point across.  Real life shit is basically a bunch of errands that need to happen post tour, and is just stuff that you can’t get done on the road such as haircuts, teeth cleanings, taxes, make-out sessions, etc.  I put aside all of that garbage and made the fire my number one priority.

Step one, text Fat Face:
Me: “You want to try to build a fire with me?”
Fat Face: “I’m confused, is that a metaphor for something else?”
Like I’ve said, I suck at texting, so in my mind I answered him with details and a funny pun, but apparently I did not in fact text him back at all.   I got a call from him a few minutes later and I began to explain my predicament, but the long-winded explanation simply ended with, “I just need to build a fucking fire and you should do it with me.” And here is why I love Fat Face: “All right! Let’s build a fire! Fuck yeah!” He’s always down.

Step two was to get Fat Face awake and at my house at a reasonable hour. He generally sleeps until my day is half way over, but he surprised me with his 10:30am call. By 11:00am we were googling “how to build a fire” which he thought was cheating.  Considering that it wasn’t his resolution, he was very concerned with what was considered cheating and what wasn’t, and he was all about attempting to do it straight up caveman style. Um, no. He was delusional and thought we were going to walk outside, rub some sticks together, add some wood and BOOM!

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Step three was finding a place to do build this thing. I was concerned with finding a dry spot, a place semi secluded so that we wouldn’t be bothered by authorities and cultivating the appropriate materials. Fat Face was concerned with getting ice cream. He pretended to humor me for a moment while I thought out loud about the possible locations, then he said, “Cait, I feel like we can just build it on a sidewalk somewhere.” Oh God.

He went on to say that he thought this whole process would only take ten minutes. Once he said that, I knew I was on my own with packing a fire starting bag. I took my Mom’s GAP beach tote and put a knife, my gifted FireSteel and a shovel inside. Fat Face’s parents house sits at the edge of a wooded area, so we decided to go there. It was the best idea we have ever had.  If there is ever a zombie apocalypse, just go to Fat Face’s parents house.  I’ll give you the address, just remember to bring some champagne and Fat Face and I will supply the whiskey.

The backyard had EVERYTHING we needed. We needed to dig a shallow hole, then surround it with rocks, which we easily found. We also needed tinder, kindling, twigs and larger dry branches. Miraculously, we found all of this material within a 30 foot radius of where we decided to construct this fire.  I will say, Fat Face was looking pretty damn sexy as he was sitting in the dirt, being one with nature and using my flint fire starter to create a spark, the first marking of true human progression.  It was very primal and kind of made me want to either do him right there in the dirt or bite the head off of a squirrel and then roast it in the open fire while doing a sacrificial dance and chant.  I settled for a high-five.

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Monterey was there in spirit because he was kind of the fuel behind the fire (pun intended) and I was picturing him doing something on the other side of the country that is on his productivity list in that moment as well. He was probably doing something very adult, like making a business plan, or editing his reel… while I was crouched down, hoping that the city worker’s nearby might mistake Fat Face and I as children and not bother us. I mean, when is the last time you saw two almost 30 year old’s in a backyard playing with twigs and searching for rocks for no apparent reason.  I was banking on them assuming that we were just kids playing in a field so that they wouldn’t come over to inform us that what we were doing was very illegal.

The secret weapon to igniting the fire was the “fluff.” This is a term that Fat Face and I used to describe the saw dust we created. At first we were trying to ignite very thin peels of wood, but it just wasn’t thin enough. I was willing to resort to venturing to the nearby drying machine and retrieving some lint, but Fat Face considered that cheating, so I googled “tips on igniting a fire using FireSteel.” He considered my googling cheating also, but fuck him. I read that saw dust was the answer, and the fluffier the better. So, we created saw dust with my knife (thank god I brought that thing) and I kept saying, “we need more fluff!” I began getting a solid rhythm with my fluff creation, to which Fat Face said, “Ooooo girl, yeah, make that fluff.”  That made me laugh and I lost my rhythm so Fat Face had to finish creating the fluff. He was better at it anyway, as he made double what I did in about half of the time. After a solid half hour of trying to ignite the fluff, it finally caught.
From there, we just kept adding more fluff and then twigs and then branches and then we had a bona-fide fucking fire that we made with our bare hands.  YAY!!  We definitely had a moment. It felt extremely satisfying and a bunch of other adjectives I could throw at you, but most of all, if felt really good to share the moment with someone.  I feel better about beginning this new year now that I started that damn fire with a little help from Monterey, the LD and Fat Face.   2014 was a fucking ride, and now I feel okay about getting on the next one.

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This year’s resolution may sound far-fetched to some of you, but the more I travel the more obtainable it seems.  I want to leave the continent.  I’ve been to Europe before, but it was a long time ago now, and it’s just time to leave the continental US again. I’m pretty sure that I’ve been to every state multiple times now, and I’ve done cross-country Canada, so it’s time to cross an ocean. The more people you meet, it’s funny how the world starts to feel smaller. I know many people on different continents now, so obtaining the goal of visiting one of them does not seem so implausible.  With that being said, I will definitely need a little help from my friends to obtain this year’s resolution also.  I have a friend who lives in Australia, and we agreed to try to see each other sometime this year. Whether he comes here, or I go there, or we meet half way…. so he may be the friend who helps me realize this 2015 resolution.  And who knows, maybe there will be a story there.

What are your 2015 resolutions and did you complete last years?

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Part 2 of 2: Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 12

…to be continued…

So I drive the child home and I was not planning on exiting my vehicle, but somehow this gem must have convinced me. I don’t remember the details. He tried to get me to go up to his apartment, but that was not happening. So we were walking around his apartment complex, which seemed like a good idea because it was giving me time to sober up before driving home. Of course this led to the kiss because why not?  I’m willing to exploit myself in the name of a good story. We were kissing for a couple of seconds when he stopped and said, “by the way, my name is….”

My first thought as he’s saying this sentence was, I don’t give a fuck what your name is! But then we get to the end of the sentence and he says, Fat Face. Obviously, that’s not a direct quote, but he has the same goddamn name as my Fat Face. The whole reason I was in this mess was because I was pissed at Fat Face, and now the child had the same name as him. I couldn’t do it anymore and I literally starting laughing in this poor kid’s face. He didn’t get it, so I just said, “Of course your name is______.” He still didn’t get it, so when in doubt, smile and nod. Which he did. Good boy.

Then he attempted for the third time to get me up to his apartment, which I will admit, I now considered because this whole situation was just becoming more and more entertaining, but I do have some level of self-respect. I ended it there, I think I gave him a friend pat on the shoulder and said goodbye.

Little did I know, Fat Face was on the other side of town, basically doing the same exact thing as I was.

The next day Fat Face called me, and I thought it was going to be to apologize. Of course not!  He was calling to ask if I knew any remedies to get rid of hickeys.  Fist of all, no.  I have never had a hickey in my life because I think they’re incredibly tacky and disrespectful and I don’t put up with that kind of behavior.  Second of all, I’m still mad at you!  Thirdly, who the fuck are you letting give you a hickey you schmuck?  She better be flippin’ hot! Fat Face doesn’t take things too seriously, so normally he wouldn’t give a shit about a couple of hickeys on his neck, but it was the day of his high school reunion. I took pleasure in this.

He begins to tell me of the events leading up to getting his neck mauled, and I find out that he too went out after our war of words, he too somehow got to talking to someone who he was not into and she too was a child. Just like my child, Fat Face’s child tried to seduce him, but was turned-down. To Fat Face’s honor, for a guy, he is capable of showing amazing restraint even when he’s intoxicated. I wasn’t planning on telling him about my previous night’s escapade, but when he told me about his, it was all too much of a coincidence and I had to let him in on it.

To top it all off, while my two boys have the same name, my name also came up in his night out too! In his half-assed attempt at stopping their make-out session, he tried the excuse, “I have a girlfriend.” She wasn’t buying it.

“No you don’t.”

“Yeah I do…”

“What’s her name?”

“Caitlin.”

Of course, my name was the first one that he thought of.  Not thirty seconds after claiming to have a girlfriend named Caitlin, he receives a text message from me which she sees. Brilliant. I couldn’t have planned the parallels of this night if I tried. My text came immediately after I left the child, and it was my drunk way of trying to be mysterious and take a stab at Fat Face. It just read, “I hope you’re entertained.” God I was being dramatic.  Fat Face probably just rolled his eyes at my text and then continued his make-out session.

He never thinks that the situations him and I consistently get ourselves into are as hilarious as I do, and this time was no different. He laughs, but then he’s just like, “Yeah, cool Cait.”

Later that night, to get even with him, I would crash his reunion. They were at the “after party” at some dive bar on the beach. Before I got pissed at him, I was encouraging and hoping that he’d “re-meet” someone. After his asshole statement from the night prior though, I was now prepared to sabotage. I love Fat Face no matter what, so had he sounded like he was actually having a good time and asked me not to come, I would have respected that regardless of my current disdain for him. When he called me however, I could tell that he needed his partner in crime to spice things up.

When I arrived, I immediately began Mission Embarrass Fat Face. I was yelling through the bar lies like Fat Face had herpes… he was recently incarcerated for having sex with a minor… that he had three nipples, anything that came to mind. I was also pointing out his hickeys to everyone. I was being so obnoxious.

Fat Face is always a good sport though, and he didn’t give a fuck, so he was just laughing and joining in. It basically turned into a Cait and Fat Face performance, and people just started staring awkwardly the way you do when you’re watching two apes fondle each other at the zoo. We were shouting obscenities and literally gleeking whiskey onto each other’s faces.

I went to the same high school and was the class just under him, so I knew a lot of the people there.  A few of them I of course have mild history with, so that made things even more interesting. When a couple of people asked if Fat Face and I were now dating, I told them that we did for a little while, but then shit got weird when we found out that my mom’s great uncle’s nephew is Fat Face’s dad, so it just didn’t work out. I couldn’t tell if these people actually believed me or not, I was just impressed with my improv skills.

Once it became clear that we had officially scared everyone away from us, we went down onto the dance floor that had ZERO people on it, a fucking ugly cheap disco light thing, god awful music playing and a random hoola hoop on the ground. Of course we went on to make utter fools of ourselves by white people dancing together and attempting to hoola hoop, then integrating the hoola hoop with our god awful dancing.

After sufficiently embarrassing ourselves enough to call it a night, we left and decided to walk on the beach for a while to sober up before driving home. In true Fat Face and Caitlin style, we stripped down to our underwear and jumped into the Gulf. I can’t believe we did this because it was dark, so we obviously couldn’t see into the water and that’s always terrifying, but he always brings out the adventurous side of me.

Once we both made it home, it must have been around 3:00am, and I texted him saying that he is now obligated to come to my reunion next year. He said, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” I told him no, there’s no option, to which he responds with,

“Don’t care. Passing out.”

God I love him.

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Part 1 of 2: Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 12

I hate anonymity, but I’ve been participating in it recently, occasionally giving the boys that I write about pseudonyms so that their ex’s or girl that they flirted with one night over a pitcher of beer and a soccer game, don’t get offended.  I guess me giving them bullshit names, is my way of not cock-blocking my friends.  But come on girls, stop getting pissed at guys just because they have a story that doesn’t include you.  It’s embarrassing.  So because I’m annoyed right now that I have to practice restraint, I am going to give my friend the pseudonym “fat face” for this entry.  Generally, I would call him “My Love,” a name we’ve been calling each other since 2003, but he pissed me off, so he’s not getting the nice nickname today.

I’d like to note that Fat Face is not at all fat.  He’s actually quite good-looking and I like picking out ties for him because he has a good fashion sense and when he’s feeling especially sweet, he’ll even let me pick out his outfit.

Him and I always have a lot of fun together.  Whether I’m making him play Monopoly with me, or we’re hoping fences and jumping into high school pools at 3:00 in the morning, we always have a great time.  We have been hanging out a lot because at the moment we’re both single(ish), we live in the same city, have a self-destructive personal life and put up with each other’s obnoxious tendencies, so I’d say he’s my partner in crime.  He’s also one of my best friends.

When we were teenagers, we had a whole group of friends who would rally together and participate in these slightly illegal, yet harmless activities such as spray painting city light bulbs, climbing on roofs and planning underground Beta fish fight clubs.  The rest of the “crew” have gone on to have fully functioning adult lives, and Fat Face and I are the two who still blow bubbles and giggle at the word vagina.  I’m sure our inability to settle down is due to our deep inner discontent, but this is something we choose to ignore for the most part when we’re together.  We just have too much damn fun to bother with gross discussions of the true reasons of why we push everyone away.

This screenshot perfectly sums up our friendship:

IMG_0130That is a very brief explanation of our most recent history, maybe I’ll get into our more advanced history some other time, but for now, we’re talking about what he did to piss me off, and the sinful events that took place after.  While on the phone with him the other night, he said something that was probably true, but I was not trying to hear it right then.  It was something along the lines of me always getting myself into ridiculous situations because I “welcome” them.  He went on to just dig himself into a hole, including statements such as, “I’m entertained by them though!”  I basically took it to mean that he doesn’t take me, or my life seriously.

“Fat Face.  Fat Face.  Stop talking.  I’m hanging up on you.”

“No!  No!  Don’t hang up.  Please!”

“Yes, I’m going.  You’re making me mad.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“Whatever.  Bye.”

Of course, we were kind of laughing, even as we were yelling at each other.  He knows me well enough to know that I just needed a night to settle down and that by tomorrow I’d only be 60% mad at him, so he let me go.  I was planning on a low-key night, it was 10:00pm and I was sitting at a Starbucks instead of a bar.  After Fat Face ambushed me with that however, I felt I deserved a cocktail to unwind from the mental uneasiness he so graciously offered.  I brought my book to a nearby bar, sat in my spot and ordered a Beefeater martini with two olives.

20 pages and 20 ounces of gin later, and I was humoring this guy next to me, pretending to listen as he discussed something relating to baseball I think, and something relating to his dog, which I definitely didn’t give a shit about.  This went on for about a half hour, but once he busted out the iPhone to show me pictures of his damn dog that I didn’t ask about, I gave myself a Caitlin pep talk.  It went something like this:

Why the fuck are you talking to this guy?  You know you’re just humoring him because you’re bored and pissed at Fat Face.

After my pep talk, I decided to actually look at the guy whose time I was currently wasting.  He was a child.  This kid must have been freshly 21.  Okay, now things were getting interesting, I thought.  Fat Face is always getting himself involved with little girls who still take bathroom mirror selfies, and the kid I was talking to was their male counterpart.

Once I discovered the irony, I was eating it up.  I began to actually make eye-contact, asked him what his dumb dog’s name is and even went as far as to inquire about what it feels like to have been born in the ’90s.  In hindsight, it was obviously my way of lashing out at Fat Face’s statement.  You think I “welcome” my ridiculous situations?  Well watch this!

Just call me Ms. Maturity.

The child and I got up to go outside, and he was carrying a fucking duffel bag.  Immediately after that hilarious discovery, which I of course called him out on, I found out that he doesn’t have a car.  Even better.  Here I am, a 27-year-old professional, (sort of) about to make a bad decision with a kid who carries around a duffel bag, has no car and wears pink button up shirts.  “So does that mean I’m taking you home?” I asked.

“Yes.”  Oh God.

To be continued…

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