New Year's Swaray
Teddies, Jackets, and Booze
Porta by the Market, Seattle, WA
We are at a sort-of private party in a hip Greek restaurant downtown that used to be a hip Mexican restaurant, right after it was a hip natural foods restaurant. Derek Mazzone is spinning, people are well-dressed, and the median age looks to be about 30. So the old guy at the bar looks a wee bit out of place.
He's in his early 60s and wears a tweed jacket with a button-down underneath. He's grumpy and leaves his seat frequently to go to the bathroom? Kitchen? Does he own this place? He has one eyebrow that goes SCHWING! and often says brief things into the ears of pretty girls but never smiles at them. If he comes back and someone is too close to his chair, he grumbles and shoves his way through. It's like he's been here for ten years and hell if a change of ownership will make him give up his seat.
We discuss and settle on "camisole" to describe the particular tank tops the girls are wearing tonight, after rejecting one friend's olde timey suggestion of "teddie". There are tons of these girls here with their sparkly shirts and strappy heels and prom hair. My friend calls it a Boobie Bonanza. It's the type of environment that makes you throw in the towel and be happy that you're invisible and can dance like an idiot.
The boys wear striped shirts, and some are in suit jackets. BOYS, CAN I JUST SAY that even if you are missing a prominent tooth, tossing on a suit will increase your attractiveness by at least 20%. Though I quickly note one tiny drawback of the new no-smoking law in Seattle: I can now smell the actual smell of each of you. Deodorant. It's your friend.
As we count down to midnight with our plastic cups of champagne and our Happy New Year head things with the feathers on them, I see at least ten people get out their cel phones and start text messaging. At first I think they are missing the moment of midnight by being absorbed in their devices and their T9'ing. But maybe it's more important to connect with people you can't see at that precise moment than hug the person right in front of you. You'll do that in a minute. Right now your friends on the other side of town or the world will have a record of your midnight, and that's worth something.
The real show, of course, is outside once all the parties have ended. Walking through downtown I witness a few arrests, public urination, and screeching fights. But mostly it's less-drunk friends helping more-drunk friends stand up, put on jackets, find their cars, and hail cabs (there are no cabs here. What are they thinking?). Friends declare love for each other, promise to call tomorrow, and tell strangers Happy New Year as they stumble by, arm in arm. Now it is 2006, they holler. Now we can move on.
Porta by the Market, Seattle, WA
We are at a sort-of private party in a hip Greek restaurant downtown that used to be a hip Mexican restaurant, right after it was a hip natural foods restaurant. Derek Mazzone is spinning, people are well-dressed, and the median age looks to be about 30. So the old guy at the bar looks a wee bit out of place.
He's in his early 60s and wears a tweed jacket with a button-down underneath. He's grumpy and leaves his seat frequently to go to the bathroom? Kitchen? Does he own this place? He has one eyebrow that goes SCHWING! and often says brief things into the ears of pretty girls but never smiles at them. If he comes back and someone is too close to his chair, he grumbles and shoves his way through. It's like he's been here for ten years and hell if a change of ownership will make him give up his seat.
We discuss and settle on "camisole" to describe the particular tank tops the girls are wearing tonight, after rejecting one friend's olde timey suggestion of "teddie". There are tons of these girls here with their sparkly shirts and strappy heels and prom hair. My friend calls it a Boobie Bonanza. It's the type of environment that makes you throw in the towel and be happy that you're invisible and can dance like an idiot.
The boys wear striped shirts, and some are in suit jackets. BOYS, CAN I JUST SAY that even if you are missing a prominent tooth, tossing on a suit will increase your attractiveness by at least 20%. Though I quickly note one tiny drawback of the new no-smoking law in Seattle: I can now smell the actual smell of each of you. Deodorant. It's your friend.
As we count down to midnight with our plastic cups of champagne and our Happy New Year head things with the feathers on them, I see at least ten people get out their cel phones and start text messaging. At first I think they are missing the moment of midnight by being absorbed in their devices and their T9'ing. But maybe it's more important to connect with people you can't see at that precise moment than hug the person right in front of you. You'll do that in a minute. Right now your friends on the other side of town or the world will have a record of your midnight, and that's worth something.
The real show, of course, is outside once all the parties have ended. Walking through downtown I witness a few arrests, public urination, and screeching fights. But mostly it's less-drunk friends helping more-drunk friends stand up, put on jackets, find their cars, and hail cabs (there are no cabs here. What are they thinking?). Friends declare love for each other, promise to call tomorrow, and tell strangers Happy New Year as they stumble by, arm in arm. Now it is 2006, they holler. Now we can move on.
posted by The Fanalyst at 3:05 AM
1 Comments:
Ah, nothing smells more like "do you like this shirt my Mom bought me for Christmas at Wal-Mart? It doesn't look like Wal-Mart, does it?" than deodorant-as-cologne.
"Mmmmmm--Are you wearing Xtreme Cool Peak? Or is that Xtreme Sport?"
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