Slave to the Rhythm

Monday, August 29, 2005

It never fails that when you decide to pick a well-deserved time-out from the field of battle that the major scurmishes occur. Such was the case this weekend. After Friday night's debacle, which involved absorbing more vodka in one sitting than I've done since living with a Finnish alcoholic (yes, a redundant statement!), I was too tired to do anything on Saturday. Plus, I don't want to seem like I'm a slave to the social rhythms of Paris.

So Saturday, at around midnight, I received a call inviting me for quiet drinks at a fabulous restaurant. In fact, I was already in bed already watching a film, tucked in, while my husband slept beside me. I took the call and was half of a mind to jump back into the fray, fearful of losing my party panther status. But, it was in full consciousness of my inability to resist that I resisted. Too bad. I lost. Apparently, according to Thibault, the night was a classic.

We were sitting there at B__, with Delphine and Inaki, and the owner kept bringing out all these fantastic wines. Very special wines. Richard showed up and started yelling at everyone about why they had to make such fancy schmancy food. Why they didn't just make something simple... you know, they way he likes to take the shit out of everyone. Then, the owner, this spanish woman, called one of her friends, who is a caveist (wine merchant), and got him to open the door for us.

At the C__ M__, a hidden place reknowned for its selection of non-sulphurised wines, the owner was sitting there with his new girlfriend. The spanish woman, his ex, was really going fantastic, yelling at him to open the biggest wines, yelling at Richard to roll a joint, making a big mess of everything. The new girlfriend was so put off she had to leave. Then they played some piano music, like "Haydn," and Richard yelled "I don't know any Haydn! I only know Iron Maiden." He kept up the "con" (idiocy) all night long. I can't remember how many bottles we opened.

At the end, the owner pulled out a bottle of Japanese 100-year old whiskey. I didn't know the Japanese made whiskey. I don't even like whiskey. But it was so good... didn't have the same smell. We kept drinking and then left to go to Zorba. At Zorba, there were two girls and two guys who Richard started to take the piss out of. They started yelling and then he said, "NO, now we have a discussion!"

I got home around 6 in the morning. You really missed something ma petite Sam!

But they were really fucked up. I was shitting those guys... Was I being really awful? How bad was I? Aw fuck, I don't care. They were really messed up. And I was going to get into a fight with one of them when he said, "hey, I've already been in a fight tonight." And he pointed to his eye which was swelling up and blood on his face. So, yeah, then I backed off and ended up having a good drink with them. I went home, and slept in my clothes for one hour. Then I was woken up by Nico who wanted me to bring him to Zorba to pick up his scooter. So we went there, and there I was again, drinking a couple of Ricards in the afternoon. Then I drank a beer. Then I met Marussia and drank more beer in the park... And I went home but now I'm here.

(takes a drag of a cigarette and another slug of beer)

Then we laughed over how cuite is the same as cooked, ate food, skyped, and generally drifted into half-slumber of food coma, sun in the afternoon, and lots of beer. But now, I have a small bitterness in my heart at having to recount this in first person italics.

Oh well, no boo hoos. At least they both exclaimed many times during the evening that they wished I was there, and had it not been for my wordy protestations on the first try...Still..... guys, if it's before 4am on the weekend, you can try and get me out of bed!


a little footnote for those worried about what constitutes a good time in my books:
It's not being an alcoholic that I crave. It's missing out on once in a lifetime adventures that involve hideous amounts of expensive irreplaceable alcohol drunk in a setting that reminds one that even the best wine is not meant for bourgeois tasting notes, but as the background to mad adventure. I couldn't repeat all the fantastic witticisms shuffled around because I wasn't there and the above testimonials were gleaned from witnesses close to their deathbed.