Tuesday, June 11, 2013

The Dirty Hipster, Part I

It was the beginning of May.  Spring.  New beginnings.  Blahblahblah.  I had been talking to this drummer I’d matched with on Tinder when I was in LA whose band just so happened to be passing through Chicago on tour.  The particular Friday of the show was a slow one at work so I didn’t refuse when a coworker tried to sabotage my life with two very strong margaritas at the weekly office happy hour.  Knowing I would have time to kill between work and the show, I then accepted two tickets to a wine tasting event, bribing a friend to accompany me to meet the drummer with the promise of many free, delicious wines.
Heftily inebriated and covered in fake tattoos after “Wine Riot” 2k13, the successfully-bribed friend and I stopped at my apartment to…well I’m not sure why we did that, but I figured it would be the perfect time to catch up on my correspondence.  I called a friend of ours, you know, just to say hi (Note: this will be the second drunk dial of the night; I had already called another LA-based Tinder guy because apparently the only people I meet anymore are from Tinder.) and he almost immediately passed off the phone.  The lucky stranger I was now speaking to introduced himself as Cornelius.
“I know you’re f*cking with me; I’m not that drunk,” I told him.  “One day, we’re gonna meet and you’ll be sorry.”
 I hung up and dragged my friend to the show with a tinge of excitement to be embarking on what felt like a quintessentially 20-something, NY-esque adventure.
At the show, an unarguably necessary beer in hand, my friend rapidly started fading and sat down to give her feet a momentary break from her poorly-planned stilettos.  Somehow – in that magical way things just happen when you’re drunk – I ended up in a conversation with some Jewish kid.  From Alaska.  I didn’t even know that was possible.  Ten minutes later, my friend left and about 30 seconds after that, Alaskan Jew was wrapped around my body like we had just announced our engagement, as we swayed to the music of the drummer I was there to meet. 
The Alaskan Jew awkwardly craned his neck around and tried to kiss me, but was met only with the palm of my hand.  The show finally ended and I couldn’t find my drummer, so I decided to go meet up with a couple friends (one of whom was the guy I called earlier) clear across town.  Alaskan Jew walked me out, asked for my number and if he could kiss me now.
 “I guess…but just a little one.  There are people around.  We are in the street and I’m too old for this shit.”
He presumptuously stuck his tongue down my throat, I gave him my number assuming he wouldn’t call (he did; we went on a date), and I hopped in a cab.
I arrived at the hipsteriest bar of all time and unabashedly danced my way through the door, much to the dismay and embarrassment of my friends, while repeatedly announcing my curbside kiss with the Alaskan Jew.  As I said hello to two familiar faces, one laughed, noting that he had not seen me that drunk since college (#winning), and I turned to meet the unfamiliar face in this all-too-calm trio – a methodically unkempt hipster.  Cornelius.