I’m standing here at the bar trying to ignore these two hot chicks who I’m fairly sure have been staring at me for the past hour.
I think they’ve mistaken me for Gavin Rossdale. I’m not sure why, I just think that.
I take a quick glance. Yes, they think that.
I play it cool, avoid direct eye contact.
I’ve been waiting to get a drink for what seems like forever and I’m wondering why the bartender keeps shooting me dirty little looks and turning away. In my mind I’m composing a line of obscenities to scream at him when I happen to catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. What I see shocks and fascinates me at the same time.
Both my arms are spinning like windmills and there’s a look on my face that’s not of this world. As I notice that my menacing little dance is aimed at the bartender (undoubtedly the cause of his distress), I wonder how long this has been going on. I look closer at my reflection. One of the arms appears to be torn off of my tuxedo (or is it my Van Halen tour shirt?).
Confused, I look back over at the table of hot chicks. Two dudes are sitting there. No chicks. I grab a guy at the bar and start pulling his arm when suddenly a bouncer grabs me.
“I don’t care who your father is, Gene,” he says. “If you cause another scene in here tonight I’m gonna snap your spinning little arms in half. We’ve had all the shit from you that we can take.”
I’m taken aback because I’ve never been in this bar before, at least I don’t think I have, and I’m wondering who Gene is, and who Gene’s father could be.
I’m staring at the bouncer, trying to find something familiar about his face. Suddenly I realize that something may be familiar about the little glasses he’s wearing, but then I remember that what I’m thinking of is a show called R.A.S.H. that plays late on weeknights, there’s this annoying character on that show called “Sonar” who’s dorky and small and always nervous and who, come to think of it, looks nothing like this guy who’s twisting my arm because this guy is black and weighs about 300 pounds, and on second inspection, isn’t wearing any glasses.
“Okay, guy,” I tell him. “I’m mellow tonight. No need to worry.”
“That’s what you always say,” he says as he walks away. “I’m watching you.”
I mumble something about being the most feared trial attorney in Hollywood as I run a hand through my disheveled hair.
I notice people looking at me again. Shit, my arms are swinging. I try to bite my hands for a while, holding both of them between my teeth, but this seems to cause alarm. A woman at a nearby table falls out of her seat.
Wandering to the dance floor, I find this waitress, this hot waitress, who’d dancing with an old man in a nice suit. I wave a twenty in her face until she stops dancing.
“What?” she says, acting flustered. I’m looking at her cleavage.
“What did you say?” She’s shouting now, agitated. The old man’s turning red.
“A drink!” I scream. “Fucking pronto! Two Buttery Nipples and a gin martini.”
She’s looking at my arms, they’re swinging again.
The old guy growls at me. By now I know I’m doing something wrong.
I turn to leave, letting one of my flailing arms strike his fat cheek, pretending it was an accident. As I’m wandering off, I’m horrified by the idea that I may have just tried to order drinks from Catherine Zeta Jones and Michael Douglas.
Soon I find myself near the DJ booth and somehow I’m drinking two Long Island Iced Teas that I’m not sure I paid for. I’m talking to an attractive chick who introduces me as “Ben” to her blonde friend and I’m completely disoriented before my gut tells me that I must have been telling people that I’m Ben Affleck again.
I mumble something about the progress of Pearl Harbor II. They look scared. The little hottie has guts though, she puts her hand out to shake. I casually put both drinks in my left hand, stacked one above the other, and shake with my right.
“It’s nice to get off the set and meet nice young ladies,” I say, readying myself for a triumphant gulp of Long Island Iced Tea. “It’s always …refreshing… to get out and mingle with regular people.” I wink at them. “Regular … folks. It reminds me where I came from.”
I throw my head back and slam what’s left of the upper drink, forgetting that I’ve got another full glass directly below it. An avalanche of brown liquid and ice crashes down on me. I’m drenched from jaw to waist.
I’m probably saying something like, “It’s okay, it’s Matt Damon’s tux, no problem, he has three, he won’t notice,” but I’m too shocked to be sure if I’m saying this or thinking it and by the time I regain my vision the women are gone.
I’m becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the music. It sounds like some old N’Sync song that might be called “Dirty Pop” or “Mmmmbitty bob.” I grit my teeth and fish around in my pants pocket for a cigarette. To my surprise I find a half empty bottle of Budweiser. I don’t know how long this bottle has been in my pants but it has made them look as if I’ve pissed myself. There’s a circle of yellow liquid spreading around me on the dance floor. I’m thinking that this is a horrible waste of beer when, out of the blue, I realize that I actually am pissing myself. At that same moment I become absolutely incensed by this fucking N’Sync song and I’m yelling at the DJ to put on some Duran Duran but he pretends he can’t hear me. He looks dumbly at the women on the dance floor, some of whom are now slipping in what they innocently think is beer.
I scream at him to play “Hungry Like the Wolf.” This gets his attention but instead of changing the song he just waves his arms at me like some sort of retarded swimmer and after a while I realize he’s mocking me and it pisses me off beyond description.
All at once I realize that this DJ is Brian Austin Green from Beverly Hills 90210. I loft my Budweiser like a grenade into the DJ booth. It explodes right in front of him on his gigantic mixing board. Sparks fly up as the beer seeps into the circuits and it’s hard to see through the smoke but it’s possible that Brian Austin Green is being electrocuted at this very moment.
The music has stopped and everyone is screaming and slipping in my urine as they run for the front door. Flames leap from behind the DJ booth. I’m swinging my arms like a madman as I jump behind the booth and quickly snatch out Duran Duran’s Greatest Hits.
Now I’m running across the dance floor with parts of my tuxedo and hair on fire to the bar against the opposite wall where there’s an auxiliary CD player, somehow I know this. I do a Dukes of Hazard slide over the top of the bar, pop in the disc and hit track 9. “Hungry Like the Wolf” suddenly blares loud enough to deafen the gods and the last of the people squeal and stampede over the bouncer who warned me earlier. The flames are getting higher, there’s not much time. My arms are twirling so fast I think I might fly away but I’m fairly sure I’m no longer on fire.
I grab a bottle of Jose Cuervo and run for the back door where those two hot chicks who had been watching me earlier are trying to get out. I burst out the back door, one of them on each arm, and I think I’m blabbing something like, “Gwen’s on tour, we can go back to my place.”