So after contemplating over my relationship with my Rockstar, I have come to realize that Date Night should be included in the list of national holidays on the Sparklebumps calendar. This being mainly because it usually only happens about once a year. I am not complaining, no- here is the part where I tell you I am not like most women. I do not need to be wined and dined by my significant other in order to be happy in my relationship. A good hardy fucking is quite preferable, actually, so- let us just say that I am exstatic about the state of my relationship. That being said, once or twice annually, my Rockstar finds it necessary to get us out of our sexually-charged slump and venture out into the world. Friday was one of those times.
I got home from working on Friday night to (surprisingly) find my Rockstar still awake at 8:00 (don’t ask.) I also found that he was sans Daughter, and had no intentions of immediate slumber. Instead, he stated, “Take a shower, and then we can go downtown and see what shitty bands are out.” I, being thrilled at the prospect of wearing my new ruffle skirt and multi-colored sparkly tights replied, “Woo!”
So after slapping on the going-out-on-the-town appropriate amount of eyeshadow, (and my Rockstar donned his “Army” pants that make me just wanna bite right into his cute butt) we departed.
(For the record, the last time we went downtown was 2 Halloweens ago, and the night ended disastrously when no taxis were available for transport home, and we ended up walking three miles in winter-like weather- I, while wearing a skimpy angel costume and running barefoot while carrying my 5″ sequined angel shoes.)
We arrived downtown, and went to the Red Carpet. For those of you not familiar with St. Cloud history, the Red Carpet is a four level bar/ nightclub that is semi-famous for being in some movie one time long ago. This being a college town, on any given night, the Carpet can be overrun with drunkies. (Quite entertaining.) We went to the bar and I ordered my Peach Schnapps with water (which never ceases to get a raised eyebrow from the bartender) and my Rockstar ordered a beer. We then waited for excitement to ensue.
One of the pasttimes my Rockstar and I have when we go out is to check out the hot chics. This night, we ended up ogling the bartender girls, since the place was short on patronage. After a bit, the band started.
I was immediately thrilled at the choice in band, (even though the first song they sang was a Rolling Stones hit), and we sat (and I wiggled) there for the next hour or two. We gave most of our money to our Asian Hooker waitress and said, “Keep ’em comin.” I had a Scooby Snack (which I had forgotten existed) and we shared a shot of Jag. I also made friends with the bouncer (his name was Security) and a few other security-type people placed near the bathroom. (In case of a massive shit explosion, perhaps.)
At one point, during the band’s break, I grabbed the bassist’s wrist and asked him if he was, in fact Robert Trujillo (the fill-in bassist for Metallica and Black Label Society. Also see: the best bassist in the world.) He assured me that he was NOT, in fact, Robert Trujillo, but that he had just started the band the day before and was, in fact, started a “kick-ass” band in March. Sadly, my Rockstar and I forgot his name AND the name of his new band as soon as he walked away, (alcohol has that affect) so we will not again be seeing Robert Trujillo’s Twin intentionally anytime soon.
During the course of the night, a girl and a man came and sat at the table in front of us. I (being drunk) noticed the girl was cute (of course), but then did not think of her (or them) again. Not until my Rockstar whispered (or yelled into my ear over the music), “She keeps looking back at you, you know.” I said, “Oh! I must go say hey!” So I went over and said hey.
I informed the cute girl that the man she was with (her husband) seemed NOT to be showing her a good time, and that she should come hang with us. She politely declined, but then her hubby went out to dance (drunkily) and I talked to her for a bit. When my Rockstar and I decided to leave, (because the band had started playing horseshit girly music) I gave her a giant hug and wished her good luck with her boring husband. She said, “Thank you.”
You think that is the end of the story, don’t you? Fear not. This was only part one. However, I must dye my hair and eat some French fries before I get to part two. So stay tuned.