A Field Guide To The Public Skating Rink

As a Canadian expat living in Washington DC, I've probably logged more rink time than most of the local population.  But the vast majority of that rink time has been spent indoors, even during my Canadian residency, which included a pretty long stint in Vancouver which is totally unsuitable for outdoor ice.

So every year, when the National Gallery of Art's Sculpture Garden rink gets going, I try to get out there as much as I feel like I'm willing to drop the $8 for admission.  Skating outdoors rules.  No matter how unseasonably warm it might be (it's been around 20C through most of Advent), skating outside is a surefire way to kick your brain into winter-festivities mode.

The Sculpture Garden rink is small, and crowded, which can impede your ability to get a really good skate in, but it sure does make for great people watching.  And for the benefit of those of you who don't often get out on the rink, here is a handy guide to the denizens of the public rink - some of which might even apply to you:

1. The Figure Skaters

Rule #1 of the public skating rink: The Figure Skaters own the center.  If you don't know a Triple Lutz from a Triple Salchow, you'd best stay to the outside and skate NASCAR laps with the rest of the Plebians.  The Figure Skating category resolves down into several sub-categories:

1a. The Public Rink Diva
Easily identified by the tight-fitting gear, the ability to land a jump on a single edge, and impressive looking spins with enough arm flourishes to make you look around for the French judge's score for artistic impression, The Diva is there to make you look at her (and while there are dude figure skaters out there, The Diva is always female... always).  She is, however, only there to be looked at.  Don't try to approach her, Icarus, lest her brilliance melt the wax on your wings.

1b. The Grinder
An aspiring Diva, The Grinder is there to practice the very moves that The Diva executes blindfolded and in-time to arrhythmic crowd-clapping.  Only problem is that The Grinder fails a lot, and spends a lot of her time on her @$$, collecting the snow carved up by the Diva's latest spin.  Hence her alternate name: The Zamboni

1c. The Figure Skating Dude
A rarer species, the Figure Skating Dude always garners a bit of a double-take when he busts out his first single axel.  His presence at the rink tends to annoy The Divas in the crowd, as the Figure Skating Dude tends to collect a disproportionate amount of attention due to his scarcity.

2. The Hockey Players

Check the skates.  Not just for the fact that they're hockey skates - check for the telltale signs of hockey-wear-and-tear: black puck-marks on the blade holders, cuts and scuffs on the boots from fighting in the corners with opposing players, visible signs of mold or mildew on the laces...  You may also see some team swag - a logo'd ball cap, or a warmup jacket.

If the center of the rink can be thought of as dominated by the Figure Skaters, the outside of the rink can be considered to be loosely patrolled by the Hockey Players.  They tend to play the role of impromptu instructor for Terrified Amateurs, and are often first on the scene when a Fearless Amateur takes a bad spill.  They also tend to be well represented in the "Couples on a Date" category.


3. The Amateurs

Rental skates?  Stiff, upright posture?  Total lack of control?  Check, check, aaaannnddd.... check.  The Amateurs present a lot of the people-watching fun at the public skating rink.  Their enthusiasm, effort level, and general lack of self-consciousness is awesome from a spectator standpoint.  There are of course, a few different sub-species here:

3a. The Terrified Amateur
Distinguished by the death grip they maintain along the sideboards, the Terrified Amateur believes that if God meant for them to skate, He would have given them pointier feet.  Nevertheless, the Terrified Amateur is a gamer, having been dragged to the rink by friends, family, or the hope of getting somewhere with their date.  Fortunately, the Terrified Amateur knows their limits, and their hanging-on-to-the-boards-for-dear-life strategy usually keeps them from injuring themselves.  They are also easily picked-out by Hockey Players as candidates for an impromptu skating lesson if they look cute enough.

3b. The Fearless Amateur
The most dangerous animal on the public rink, the Fearless Amateur is like the proverbial Bull in a China Shop, only if that China Shop had a frozen sheet of ice for a floor, and the Bull had sharp, steel blades strapped to its feet.  The Fearless Amateur has generally acquired some ability to skate forward, but despite a lack of turning or stopping capability, will gleefully cannonball around the rink as fast as they can until they hit something.  Best case scenario: They slam into the boards.  Worst case scenario: They take out an entire family of Kosovan refugees.


4. The Couple On A Date

The skating date makes for great people-watching.  The rink acts like a de facto fishbowl, as the couple literally skates into and out of close proximity of everyone else at the rink on a recurring basis.  It's like having a date in a restaurant, only if your table slid around the restaurant on a conveyor so all of the other patrons could take turns listening in on what your favourite movie is, and where you would like to travel to.  Depending on the relative skating ability, there are three (technically four) different variations of Couple On A Date at the public rink:

4a. Both parties know how to skate
Probably the closest to a regular date, as the public rink is just treated like any other venue: a park, or a seashore for instance.  For the two people on the date, this scenario allows them to connect via a shared interest and skill (skating) that really is a bit of a niche thing in the DC area.  It's actually quite sweet, and gives the rest of the rink goers a bit of a d'awwww moment to brighten their day.

4b. Dude knows how to skate. Girl is a total amateur
This is actually a pretty good situation for the dude.  If his date is a Terrified Amateur, she will be clinging onto him for dear life the entire time, and he will be able to prove his value as a man by protecting her from an imminent, ice-related demise.  If his date is a Fearless Amateur, then it is a virtual guarantee that she will wipe out hard at some point, and he will have an opportunity to prove his value as a man by picking her up, dusting her off, and giving her some hands-on coaching on how to improve her skating (the level of hands-on can vary depending on the dude's douchebag factor...).  All guys should learn how to skate, if only to open up this scenario for them as a future possibility.

4c. Girl knows how to skate. Dude has no clue
Emasculation central.  And also, the most entertaining for spectators.  Pride kicks in hard here, so the dude has no choice but to be a Fearless Amateur, and the flailing, stumbling, keystone cops routine that ensues is hilarious, both to his date, and to everyone else at the rink.  It's made even better when the girl starts to show him up by trying to pick him up off the ice, or letting him use her as a pylon for balance as he waddles around the rink.  Ultimately, the dude may send her away, swallow his pride, and go into Terrified Amateur mode along the boards.  That just opens him up to have his date skate up to him at speed only to snow him with a power stop (also hilarious).  All guys should learn how to skate, if only to prevent them from ever appearing in this scenario.

4d. Neither of them know how to skate
I don't think this ever happens, because if neither of them knows how to skate, why would they go skating?

5. The Rink Guards

Ostensibly there to enforce the rules, the actual role of the Rink Guards is for them simply to exist, so that the rink ownership has a means for avoiding legal action stemming from the injuries caused by Fearless Amateurs.  I don't think I've ever actually seen Rink Guards do anything particularly useful, but that might just be me.

6. The Zamboni Driver

Everyone wishes they could be this guy...

Watching The Wire, Part II: Chess - It's Not Just a Game, It's a Metaphor!

Five episodes into the first season, one scene in particular stands out for me:

Yo, why you playing checkers on a chess set? 

There are so many things I love about this scene. First of all, you get a clear demonstration of the differences between Bodie and Wallace, illustrated via the contrast between Checkers and Chess. Yes, it's a bit of a rote cliche (put the phrase "chess not checkers" into google to see the borderline overuse of the phrase), but it fits so perfectly into this context. Wallace comes across in these early episodes as smart, thoughtful, and as the kind of kid who, in different socio-economic circumstances, could probably have gone to college and gotten a legit job, and a legit life. It's telling that he wants to learn how to play chess instead of checkers - He knows that there is more to the world out there, and he wants to learn about it. A few episodes later, it's Wallace who speaks up to D about not getting paid, and him again who spots Omar's boy playing pinball and then has the presence of mind to call in the hit. That kid's got potential!

Bodie, on the other hand, knows what he knows, thinks that he's good at it, and doesn't care to step outside of it. But once D explains the basic rules of The Game, Bodie buys into it, and whereas Wallace quietly takes it all in, Bodie immediately looks for ways to work the rules to his benefit. That closing exchange speaks volumes:

Bodie: A'ight, but if I make it to the end, I'm top dog.
D: Nah, yo, it ain't like that. Look, the pawns, man, in the game, they get capped quick. They be out the game early.
Bodie: Unless they some smart-ass pawns...

Smarter than your average pawn 

Bodie is crafty enough to escape from juve, but there's no way he survives long within this story arc. He's a pawn striving to race across the board, and there's no way that can end well.  Bodie be out the game early methinks...

Another brilliant aspect of this scene is how effectively, and efficiently, it educates the viewer on how a drug organisation operates. The routine of moving the stash around, so key to the "Omar steals the stash scene," is established here. The explicit identification of Stringer as the guy who gets $#!^ done, the idea that The King's crew "run so deep, he really ain't gotta do $#!^", and the inherent futility of the drug-dealing lifestyle ("Everything stay who he is"); all of that critical background information is packaged up and delivered in a phenomenal 3-minute scene.

Finally, the chess metaphor changes the way you (or at least I) watch the show.  A lonely McNulty wants to hookup with the DA, so he uses a work-related gambit as an opener, before making the booty call play.  The stakeout of Omar's van?  That's all about the Cops trying to set up a collar of Omar with a weapon on him.  Only Omar is thinking two moves ahead: He makes a clean move in the van to set up a parlay, and then drops the fact that he knows Bubbles is working with the cops.  Avon is jumping at shadows, and trying to get two moves ahead of the shadows: He gets his landline disconnected, and starts using different pay phones.

And Stinkum?  He gets a shot at being a pawn that gets promoted.

But The King Stay The King...

Adventures in Indiana Part II - The Shiny Shoes Strike Back

So, remember this post, where I recounted my old story from being in Indianapolis way back in the day?

Well, here's the story that spurred my recollection of that story:

I was heading out to Bloomington, Indiana to meet with a prospective manufacturing partner and to tour their facility.  Nothing glamourous - just your run-of-the-mill project management activity.

It was just a one-night trip, so I grabbed my garment bag, some business cards and off I went.  While I was on the plane ride over, I looked at my shoes and noticed that they were looking a little the worse for wear: a few nights out at the bar had left them scuffed up, and dotted with dried gin drinks.  Fortunately, airports remain the last refuge of the shoe shine guy, so when I landed in Indiana, I got my shoes shined.  And the shoe shine guy did a bang-up job:

I even tweeted about it:

Shoes shined and ready to go, I got my rental car and drove down to Bloomington.  My meeting was the next day, so I had a little bit of time to kill.  After doing some work in my hotel room I started to get a little stir-crazy.  I figured that as Bloomington is a college town, and as it was a Monday night, that there ought to be a good place to watch Monday Night Football somewhere.

After meandering around downtown Bloomington a little bit, I found myself at Scotty's Brewhouse.  It seemed like as good a place as any: They had the game on, plenty of beers on tap, and a bartender who looked like she'd stepped right out of a John Cougar Mellancamp video.  I grabbed a stool, ordered up a pint of Bell's Oberon and a "Mo'Fo Cluck Sandwich" and sat down to the strains of "Born in a Small Town" going through my head on repeat.

Two stools down from me on my right was another obvious business traveler, replying to emails on her blackberry while picking at her salad.  We struck up a bit of conversation to kill the time and to look a little less like the outsiders we were.  All in all, it was shaping up like a pretty enjoyable evening, until I heard something to my left.

You see, I'm Canadian, and as a Canadian living in the US, you get attuned to picking up references to Canada in your environment - it's like a sensitivity to Joni Mitchell wavelengths in your immediate environment.  Anyway, all of a sudden I picked up on a conversation to my left that involved hunting in Canada.  And the story involved a Canadian game warden pulling a gun on the teller of said story.  The level of ridiculousness in that telling was off the charts (nobody gets a gun drawn on them by a game warden unless they're an idiot), so I made ready to break into the conversation and call shenanigans on the whole affair.

But when I turned to my left, I only saw one person: a crazy-eyed, broken-looking townie telling his story to... well, The Universe, really...

Alarm bells

I did not want to get pulled in to this conversation and needed an out.  I turned to my right to get a lifeline from my fellow business traveler, but all I received was a sympathetic look that signaled "I'm very sorry, but I'm a woman travelling alone, and society dictates that you're gonna have be a gentleman and take this for the team."  I cursed under my breath and, in an effort to avoid eye contact, looked down at my shoes.

My shiny, shiny shoes...

Goddammit!!!! It's the shoes again!!! Why in the goddamned hell did I have to get my goddamn shoes shined!!!???  In Indiana?!?!

At that point I knew that I was well and truly !@#$ed

Sure enough, the next thing I heard from my left was "So how are you doing this evening, sir?"

"I'm good, thanks.  How are you?"  Why I didn't reply in a more please-don't-talk-to-me manner is beyond me.  I think I just don't have it in me to be brusque or rude like that... (you know... Canadian)

He sighed.  "Wellll.... I've been better..."  At least I knew enough not to take that bait.

I let the silence hang in the air, figuring he would fill it himself - which he did

"So, as you heard, I spent some time in Canada and had some stuff happen to me there.  I've actually traveled a lot.  I've been in jail in Mexico twice."

And away we went, with CrazedTownie giving me his official biography, which basically went something like this:

- CrazedTownie is born and raised in a small town
- CrazedTownie moves to California to be a surf-bum (shoulda had himself a ball in a small town...)
- CrazedTownie does a lot of drugs (I can't remember if he actually told me that - I may have just inferred it)
- CrazedTownie goes to Mexico
- CrazedTownie goes to Mexican jail (twice - because going to Mexican jail once apparently doesn't carry the deterrent value that you think it would)
- CrazedTownie apparently got along very well with the Warden while he was in Mexican jail (read into that what you will...)
- CrazedTownie returns from Mexico and then wanders Canada for a while, pissing off at least one game warden along the way
- Bloomington's Prodigal Son returns home to a small town

(I feel like someone should put this guy in touch with the Coen brothers - there's gotta be a movie idea in there somewhere, right?)

I listened to his tale as politely as I could, hoping I could gracefully exit the conversation at the end of the story, but no:

"So, as I said before..."

aww crap

"I'm not having a very good night."

here we go

"I just got out of the hospital.  I'm dealing with some broken ribs, my nose is broken and I have a fractured vertebra in my back"

wait - what?  And finally, my curiousity got the better of me, and against all better judgement, I decided to pick at the proverial scab... "How exactly did that happen?"

"These IU fratboys roughed me up last night.  I wasn't even doing anything to 'em.  They're actually here tonight.  I'm thinking I should go over there and talk things out with them."

Congratulations Indiana - Your consistency in putting me in possible bar brawl situations is unrivaled in the lower 48...

At this point, I feel like I am in the freakin' Twilight Zone.  Or maybe it's more like a Die Hard sequel: "How can the same $#!^ happen to the same guy twice?!?" 

Oh.  That's right.  It's the shoes... gotta be the shoes...

I take a second to diagnose the situation.  My new buddy here just got out of the hospital, has multiple broken bones, is hopped up on a combination of painkillers, and what looks to be vodka and cranberry juice, and wants to get back into it with the same bunch of random IU frat dudes who busted him up in the first place - presumably with me "Having his back."  Fortunately, having been through this once before, the please-don't-start-a-fight-and-get-my-@$$-kicked speech comes to me pretty naturally, and (thank goodness) it seems to work.

And finally, finally, relief arrives in the form of our wonderful, John-Mellancamp-video bartender who comes over to ask how our friend is doing, to which he replies:

"Can you do me a favor and kick me out after I have one more of these?"

"I'm gonna do you a favor and kick you out after this one.  I think it's time for you to go."

I could have kissed her in that moment.

CrazedTownie was civil about leaving the joint - it obviously wasn't the first time he'd been thrown out of there. 

The bartender apologized to me out of politeness.  I shrugged it off:

"Hey, no worries.  At least I have a story to tell when I get home, right?"

I left the bar and walked out onto the rainy streets of a small town, hoping for the drizzle to take some of the shine off of my too-shiny-for-Indiana shoes...

Watching The Wire, Part I: Meeting McNulty

I am pretty much the last person in the developed world who has yet to have watched The Wire.



It's not that I was intentionally avoiding The Wire - it just sort of happened. I was working full-time, going to school part-time, I had 24 to watch, and Mad Men to watch, and hockey, football, etc... and I didn't even have HBO for Pete's sake. Yes, I could have gotten the DVDs on Netflix, but I was still making my way through Kurosawa's filmography, so... well, you get the picture.


As time went on, I even started to embrace my status as a pop-culture outlier. The reactions I would get from people amused me to no end:


"You've never seen The Wire!?! What's wrong with you?!?"

uh... nothing's wrong with me... I just haven't seen it...


"You've never seen The Wire!?! Have you been living under a rock?!?"

no... I've been living in an apartment... you've been there... twice...


But one reaction that I would routinely receive started to wear at me a little bit:


"You've never seen The Wire!?! Oh, you should start watching it - you would really love it..."



And then I would get the litany of reasons why I would love The Wire - The smart writing, the dark mood, the grittiness, the moral ambiguity...



My friends know what I like, I'll give them that.


But none of that would have mattered if Liz hadn't recently decided to make watching The Wire our new TV-watching mission. You see, Liz loves Baltimore crime shows. Any of you remember Homicide: Life on the Street? Liz's favourite show ever (with the possible exception of Buffy, but that's another blog post entirely). And The Wire is apparently Homicide with the network-broadcast kid gloves removed and incinerated. Liz has actually watched the entirety of The Wire on her own (you know, during her deportation year...), but as is apparently common among fans of The Wire, she seems to see it as some kind of missionary duty to Bring The Wire to The Masses.


Which brings us to Brent's place, watching the first two episodes of The Wire on his big, fancy TV.



The first two episodes have a lot of introduction and exposition, as one has to expect, but opening with the corpse of Snotboy (or whatever that kid's name is) lying in the middle of the street sure makes an impression.


Now, if there has been one benefit to having waited so long to watch The Wire, it's that I have had extra time living in DC (a mere 40 miles away from Baltimore), getting familiar with the regional stereotypes and tropes that are referenced in the show. I've also had the opportunity to get to know a number of Baltimoreans who I couldn't help but project onto characters from the show:


Billy

as Pryzblewski:





As soon as Pryzblewski shot his pistol at the wall, this link was forged in steel. I'd apologize to Billy for what might not be the most flattering comparison, but truth be told, I think this is something he'd take as a compliment.



Brandon


as Herc:



More for the accent and general build than anything else, but nonetheless, I regard the resemblence as being there.



Don


as McNulty:


Maybe a bit more of a stretch, and McNulty definitely has more hair, but there are some shared @$$hole tendencies that make the comparison work for me




Beckey


as Kima:




Yes, I realise that Beckey is not African-American, nor is she a Lesbian, but I see the same, "don't mess with me" edge to both their personalities.



There are some others waiting in the wings for their casting call for sure, but I don't want to go too far with the casting just yet. There are a lot of DVDs to go still...


It's fun watching TV and superimposing your friends into the show. I sure hope none of them get shot though...


So after two episodes, where am I with The Wire? Well, so far, so good, but it's obvious that the show is still getting warmed up.


That of course, gives me a chance to make some predictions (Liz has pointed out that it is ridiculous to be making predictions 9 years after the show aired. That is 100% true, but I assure you that I have been well insulated from spoilers and honestly have no idea what's coming):


I feel like D'Angelo is totally being setup to be the soft-hearted gangsta who is destined to wind up in witness protection or (most likely) with a cap in his @$$.


Avon is all ruthless drug CEO, and is looking like a really cool villain. I'm thinking that he's the kind of guy who will want to kill D'Angelo personally when it comes to that (you know, 'cause they're family...).


Herc is totally going to get burned in an internal affairs investigation at some point. His penchant for going cowboy on the job is basically Chekov's gun at this point.


Sorry Billy, but I'm thinking that Pryzblewski is going to get his dumb @$$ killed at some point.


Cop shows like this usually have some example of a loving relationship disintegrating under the pressures of the job. Is that going to happen to Kima and her partner? I will be sad if that happens...

Finally, there's no way McNulty's anti-hero routine can be sustained over however many seasons, right? I mean, at some point, he's either gotta flame out, get jaded and bitter, or kill himself. Right? Am I right?!? Actually, don't tell me. I'll just watch the show.

Adventures in Indiana Part I - Flashback

So, there I am, on a work trip to Indiana. I've been to the past two Indy 500s on recreational travel, but this is my first time back in Indiana for professional reasons since 2003, and being back here again has me reminiscing on a particular story from back then.


Back in '03, I was in Indianapolis working on a computer systems validation project with my friend & co-worker Tim. Our routine was to spend between 10 and 12 hours in a windowless room that doubled as the building's tornado shelter, grinding through line after line of code that was meant to be implemented in the biopharmaceutical plant at which we worked in New Hampshire. Each day, after emerging from our tornado shelter with bloodshot eyes and less will to live than when we entered, we would go drink - a lot.


Tim and I found that an area called Broad Ripple, near Butler University, was a lively neighbourhood with an excellent selection of bars. We drank in college bars, NASCAR bars, basketball bars, townie bars... but one night, Tim decided that he wanted to go to some place a little more clubby. There was a few places in and around Broad Ripple that seemed like they would fit the bill, so we decided to try one of those that night.

Tim was taking his sweet time getting ready, so I killed some time in the lobby, leafing through a copy of that day's USA Today (love those infographics!). The elevator opens, and Tim walks out wearing a blazer, slacks, and really, REALLY shiny shoes.

Now bear in mind, I'm in jeans and a T-shirt here, rocking the same pair of hiking boots that I have worn every day and night the entire time we've been in Indy. I didn't even pack anything remotely close to as snazzy as what he had on, and with good reason - The midwest, for all the protest this comment might garner, is not snazzy.

I can't allow this to pass without some commentary:

"We're not about to go out in downtown Boston, man. Don't you think you're a little overdressed?"

Tim shrugs, "I dunno, I just want to be dressed appropriately if we wind up somewhere nice."

Of all the options at my disposal, I decide to lock in on the shoes (they are just so damn shiny).


"Dude, look at those shoes - Those shoes are way too shiny for Indianapolis."

In my head, I am picturing a small, Asian guy and a way-overdressed New Englander walking into some bar full of corn-fed Indianapolis townies. Every scenario ends with me getting thrown through a piece of plate glass and kicked in the head (which has actually happened before, but that's another story).

"Meh, it'll be fine."

It's clear to me that nothing I say can dissuade Tim from this course of action, so away we go.

We wind up at a place called Eden. I have a very specific memory of the building exterior. I remember it as actually being a nice-looking building architecturally-speaking, aside from the cheesy, neon-lit sign saying EDEN in big, lurid letters. Flashes of strobe and club lights from the upper-level windows and low-frequency thumps of bass suggested the clubby vibe that we were after that night.

I can't remember whether or not we paid a cover (God, I hope we didn't pay a cover...) but either way, we managed to gain entry and walked into what can best be described as a sort-of-but-not-quite rave club, complete with glow sticks, bad dancing, and 22 year olds pretending to be tripping on E. Tim remarks that the place reminds him of what would have been a cool club in 1995. In other words, it was exactly what we were looking for.



It was however, kind of dead. We'd gotten there a little too early. No big deal there - fewer people in the bar = shorter lines at the bar. So we sidled up to the bar, got our drink on, chatted with the bartender and watched the bad dancing from afar. As the evening wore on, the place picked up and the fun factor rose accordingly.

Enter Random Guy - This dude rolls up to the bar, orders a drink and starts talking to us. I don't remember this first conversation. What I do remember is my first impression: Random Guy = Very Weird. Afterwards he took his drink and wandered back into the crowd, and was immediately forgotten (or so he would have been if not for what came later).

After another drink or two, I'm feeling sufficiently liquored-up to consider making my own contribution to the bad dancing goings on at Eden, when suddenly Random Guy returns to our location at the bar to begin the process of taking our evening into Ridiculousland.

He looks at Tim and I with obvious agitation - "Hey - see those guys over there? They just tried to pick a fight with me. Can you believe that?!?"

Waitaminute, I think to myself... does this guy think that we're his friends?

He continues, and I notice much to my chagrin, that Random Guy has that glint of Crazy in his eyes... "I think I want to start something, but I need you guys to back me up."

Oh, for the love of God - in his weird, Random Guy worldview, we are his friends, and he wants to start a brawl with Tim and I as his supporting cast. I need to try to talk him off the ledge as gently as possible.

"I don't think that's a very good idea, man. Nobody needs to fight anybody tonight"

But our new friend is still righteously indignant. "No no - it's OK, see? Because if he's got my back, and you've got his back, and I've got your back, we're all good, right?"

At this point I am legitimately concerned that the night is going to end with my ass getting kicked by a bunch of Butler frat dudes over some perceived slight that took Random Guy into Ben-Stiller-Angry-Mode. His assumptions about our erstwhile Coalition Of The Willing need to be blown up, and quickly - "Look, nobody has anybody's back here. There's no need to start anything. Just relax, and enjoy the evening."

Miraculously, that gets through to him. He almost visibly deflates, and makes an almost pitiful figure as he wanders back into the crowd.

I am now drunk, and on a just-dodged-a-bullet adrenaline rush. Time to dance!

Tim decides to remain by the bar, so I hit the floor for some bad dancing. The crowd on the dance floor is delightfully un-ironic, and I wind up chatting a little bit with some short-haired brunette who I remember (probably incorrectly) as resembling a Hackers-era Angelina Jolie.

After dancing off the adrenaline, I return to the bar, feeling like the fun-quotient of the evening has been restored. Tim however, looks a little perturbed.

"What's up, man?"

"Brian, don't leave me alone again..."

"What happened?"

Well, suffice to say that Tim should have participated in some bad dancing instead of remaining at the bar. Shortly after I went off to dance, Random Guy returned, and perhaps seeing Tim as having been more sympathetic to his earlier plight, decided to make another inappropriate jump in friendship level.

Random Guy to Tim: "So, what are you guys doing after this?"

Tim: "Nothing really. Probably just going back to our hotel."

RG: "Yeah? Want to share a cab?"

Tim: "Uh... no... that's ok... we're good on our own."

RG: "Come on... I'll suck your dick."

As you can imagine, my jaw hit the floor at this point in Tim's recounting of the tale. You'd think it couldn't get any weirder, but our bizarre new friend had one more bullet in the clip:

Tim: "Oh... uh... no thanks. Actually... I'm married."

RG: "That's OK - So am I!"

At that point, I lose it. Poor Tim is looking totally shellshocked here, and in truth, probably needed and deserved a better friend than me in that moment, but all I can do is laugh, and when I am finally able to speak again, it is only to take the piss out of him:

"It was the shoes!!! I told you those shoes were too shiny for Indianapolis!!! Bwahahahahahaha!!!" (I know - I am a baaaaaad person...)

Once my laughter subsides, I start to feel a touch bad for Tim, whose expectations for this particular evening had been so spectacularly dashed. I also figure that we probably need to get out of there before our friend comes back yet again.

"Come on," I say to my crestfallen companion, "let's go get some burritos as big as our heads..."