Friday Night in the Big City

After an arduous work week and my mother's emotional state (her son finally flew the coop, having lived at home for 25 years), we decided we would go to Katerina's to hear a jazz singer and her piano man. I invited a friend to join us at the show; we had other plans that night anyway. The song choices were a bit strange but the singer was good, the piano player was better. I commented that the door man (handsome, albeit a bit short for my taste and a bit haughty) looked like a member of Duran Duran because of his frosted tips and his manner of dress. We enjoyed the ambience, our drinks and food but due the to bitter cold we had to make a hasty exit.

Mother had left us and my friend and I went to see Django (even better upon second viewing) at the Davis. As the movie let out, we noticed it had snowed quite a bit and was indeed still snowing. It was quarter to one, we were in the heart of Lincoln Square and didn't feel like spending the time or energy to go far. We wound up at this dive-like corner bar called Ricochet's. Now that I work in Lincoln Square, I walk by the place all the time and last night I ventured inside.

It was rather packed because there was a 30th birthday celebration taking place. Lots of people. Lots of cute guys. I scanned the crowd and within a matter of seconds a very drunk looking man bounded up to me (literally) and asked for a kiss. My friend and I are probably rather striking when entering a room: two tall women, a brunette and a blonde, wearing glasses, looking elegant and speaking German so we can talk shit about people in public. I could see why this might be too much for some gentlemen. My pal kept pointing to his cheek. I obliged. Then he asked for one on his lips. I declined. "You already got a kiss!" I said. The motto of the night was to be firm, but kind, thanks to my friend. I tried to strike up a conversation with this man that didn't involve him saying how gorgeous I was, asking for kisses, hand shakes, hugs or any other physical contact. Alas, it was in vain. My friend and I tried looking around to see if anyone could claim the poor devil. Clearly he was floundering. We noticed two guys staring at us, intrigued by our situation. I signaled to them and mouthed "Is he yours?" My friend and I both waved them over and they saved us. Or did they? One guy was definitely buzzed. Conversation was interesting with him. His friend tried harder and went so far as to "impress" us with his bad German. I told him to stop screaming, he sounded like a Nazi. They bought us drinks and saved us from the creeper (who they swore up and down they had only sort of met him that night) - so all in all, the dudes were cool in my book.

Liquid courage. It makes people do interesting things. I wish I could feel flattered that I was basically accosted at Richochet's, that I inspire such wild passion in men. But it's usually the booze. Shit.

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