Monday, December 8, 2008


At the stag last Saturday I found myself standing next to our hostess. She seemed a foot taller than me, was lithe and probably getting her Bachelor's. With her black miniskirt and black boat neck she could have been spraying perfume at The Bay or bringing out my cheekbones at M.A.C.. We stood by the wall outside the washroom, me being drunk, she watching us dudes, making sure our fists were never without an $8.75 bottle of Blue. The dancers pranced in and out of doors, leading dudes by the hand. I glanced at our hostess and noticed a moment of lucidness -- or maybe it was fatigue -- emanating from her blank face. "Do you ever differentiate between being a server or dancer?" I asked upward to her ear. Her blankness crumpled at the brow. "Like, some of my friends who've worked at these clubs, they made a point of like saying, 'I work at For Your Eyes Only. But I'm a server, not a dancer...'"
She paused as a dancer passed. "...Well... I don't have a mortgage and no kids to worry about, so I'm in a different situtation..." Her eyes never left the table of booze and she didn't intend on continuing my interruption. Even in the champagne room, or especially in the champagne room, it's best to never discuss opinions or anything requiring honesty.

Must keep it lite. Ten minutes earlier a Pink look-alike strode up to us dudes on the couch, arms akimbo, announced, "So I heard you're a bunch of rock stars."

Um. Maybe.

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