consumption addict

originally posted 12.12.06

I’m officially a menace to society.
Okay, maybe not a menace…but certainly a blight on the community.

This fact was confirmed last Saturday night at Barney’s Beanery in Hollywood. The place was supposed to be a dive bar – although I have trouble calling any place with valet parking a “dive.” I dropped in to meet up with some friends who were celebrating the birthday of a girl I barely knew. Four servings of Jameson later and I was grinning like an idiot, enjoying my night. I randomly bumped into a chick from work, and we talked it up until she and her increasingly attractive friend had to leave. Everything seemed cool – I was doing well for myself playing the “funny drunk guy” role. All things considered, it was a typical night out getting liquory, until….

Man, I wish I had a better drunk memory.

Luckily (or unluckily, depending on one’s perspective) I have the ability to block from my mind the more heinous comments I make while inebriated. I refer to said ability as the “plausible deniability” switch in my brain. Despite my possession of this relatively useless super power I am aware that when drinking I say awful, putrid, and foul things to some people. I know this because my friends hold my feet to the fire when it comes to my big fat drunken mouth. Some of my greatest hits include comments such as:

SHOW: Victoria and I are thinking about adopting an African AIDS baby.
JAYARE: I see. Well, at least it’ll be a short-term commitment.

ILLY: I dunno, Jay. Do you think he’s just using me for my body?
JAYARE: How could he!? Anyone can see that you’re so much more than a life support system for a pussy!

You get the idea.

they don’t serve beans there…

So there I am, seated at a booth in Barney’s Beanery, stewing in my scotch-whiskey when this crazy-ass girl staggers along side me. Apparently, I used her arrival as an opportunity to say something that completely riled her up. I honestly wish I could remember what it was. I know you may be thinking that its awfully convenient that I can’t recall this crucial detail. I’m not pleased at my lack of memory – for the purposes of retelling this story the missing information is imperitive (and don’t think I haven’t considered making something up). However none of my friends were in earshot, and unless drunk girl and I cross paths again, I will never know exactly what was said.

I do, however, recall the result.

Upon hearing my comment, the liquor-faced girl – in all 115 lbs of her splendor – reared back and socked me right in the nose. And I mean RIGHT on the nose. If she were sober and tried to hit me in the same spot, I doubt she could’ve pulled it off. I wasn’t so much hurt as I was stunned at her decision to attack me. I sat there – agape – thinking “what the fuck am I supposed to do? I can’t hit this girl….can I?”

To make matters worse shorty decided to rub the attack in my face, Terrell Owens style. “Look at, you…you’re scared! You won’t do anything back!” Then she did that little jump-at-you move that thugs are prone to do when they want to make their victims flinch. Everything in Barney’s Beanery stopped. It was a stereotypical movie moment: something dramatic happens at the party causing the record to scratch, leaving everyone in stunned silence. The girl turned around triumphantly, having won a seemingly unprovoked victory by punching the nearest Puerto Rican in the face. And then matters got worse.

Clearly, I was in the market for a retaliation plan that would compensate for my being publicly shamed. Of course I wasn’t going to punch the girl, but a proportional response was called for. So when drunkyface turned away for her victory lap, I cupped my left hand and laid a prodigious slap across her butt-cheeks. “Good job, baby.”

As you might expect, the girl became furious. She spun around in a rage, but instead of launching an effective assault, the drunk-faced broad slipped on a wet spot and splattered on the floor. Overturned chairs and plastic drink stirrers flew everywhere. The girl tried to stand up, but then staggered and fell once more. By now the stunned silence in Barney’s was replaced by uncontrollable laughter. The girl looked like someone trying to recover from a stun-gun attack. She didn’t just fall – she KEPT falling.

I had to admire her moxy. After a failed third attempt at standing up, I had visions of Jesus with the cross on Via Dolorosa. I finally cracked a smile and joined in at laughing at the girl. This provided her all the impetus she needed to finally get to her feet. And once she was able to stand? Jerry Springer time. The girl lunged at my throat.

Seriously.

Her friends started pulling drunk-face off me as I swatted at the angry hands with designs on clawing my face. I’m pretty sure Geraldo Rivera was in the background throwing chairs, but I can’t be sure. I’m still in my seat, so my buddy Jimmy the Saint dives in front, shielding me from the wild woman trying to publicly murder me. I remained baffled. Drunky’s friends finally pull her away and escort her to the nearest bathroom for a “bitch-b-cool” enema.

After a few minutes the ruckus in the bar dies down and I went outside to enjoy a cigarette in peace. Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as I flick my Marlboro into the street – here comes drunk girl. This was becoming ridiculous. Walking with that trademark drunken woman stagger, she stops right in front of my face and – hand to god – says:

“We could either fight…or we could hug it out. Lets hug it out, yo.”

I wanted to correct her incorrect Ari-ism, and let it be known that the line is “Lets hug it out, BITCH.” However, this seemed like the wrong moment to do so. We hugged it out, and suddenly it became a real taster’s choice moment among friends. It only occurred to me on the way home that I had squandered a perfect opportunity to propose grudge fueled rage-fucking in the back of my car. I’m so losing.

For the life of me I wish I knew what I said. It probably wasn’t even that scathing – I just found me the feistiest white girl in Los Angeles to trifle with. So white girl – whoever you are – if you can read this blog I implore you to holler at me. I desperately want to know what I said to you. I also want to collect on that rage-fuck, although I suspect our moment has passed…