I finally went to Barna on Friday evening. For those that did not go to “hip” school, Barna is this cool spot on Park Ave, complete with an interesting bouncer and its own call girls (who looked like they were called upon a little too much, if you know what I mean) and a DJ who plays all types of music but is a bit heavy on 80ies stuff.
I had heard my friends talking about it ad nauseum (til they made me puke). And of course, any thing that gets a lot of hype is automatically classified as vulgar and unworthy of my attention in my brain. Dunno why, maybe because of all those years I had to convince myself that I actually had cool taste, and was a missundaztood intellectual instead of a certified geek.
As places go it was not that bad. Girls were dressed nicely and men were actually shaved and well behaved (that is b4 the third beer). The only drunk people actually were the ones who invited us there. By the time we went in, the girls were on their way to passing out, and the boy was on his way to commit murder (since they were his cousins not his girlfriends. *A passed out girlfriend is actually a cause for throwing a party and inviting all your other friends. Just ask one of my high and mighty highschool buddies)
I paged Ms. L. to come and join the fun, only to find out she was dancing two feet in front of me. Isn’t life funny that way? Anyway I ended up having a beer, white russian and a red neck (just kidding, it was gin with ginger ale) and then joining the other girls on the road to Passing Out. Like usual, I never got there, because interesting things were happening around, people got drunk and started smooching or tasting each-others stomach or whatever passes for entertainment amongs the youth of today. Boy was I feeling out of it. Now if i had a tongue down my throat, (or my tongue down a throat) I would have probably had a different point of view.
There are three stages to night lounge life, Drinking, Making Out, and Passing Out everywhere in the American universe. there is the token couple who hooks up and makes out allover the bathroom entrance, the desperate drunk girl who sways counterclockwise to the rythm and tries to make up with the bouncers, the drunken jerk who spills drinks every three steps and runs away with your butt if you are not careful (but he looks so dashing after that third sticky pink sweet whatever in your hand), and the prim and proper couple who only smooch romantically when other people are looking at them. And then of course there is a cynical bitch like me who is composing her blog in her head (only until the third sticky pink sweet whatever, because by then the drunken jerk is suddenly making out with me).
Anyway, the next morning I had a whale of a hangover. Are people over thirty even allowed to get hangovers? Is hangover a sign that I am still relatively young and unsullied by alcohool, or a sign that I am too old and I should stick to cranberry juice from now on? Pondering on this question made my head spin even faster so I decided to go to Ikea instead.
I love Ikea, with its blue and yellow colors, its weird and bright sales people, its cool designs and its strange gadgets. I see bins, I go and I touch the objects, but what are they used for? A lamp that looks like a fork, an eggslicer that looks like a cookie cutter, and other things I can not identify. The only thing I am positive about is usually the big red armchair, everybody feels an obligation to jump on. A lot of butt imprints on that fella. If it was a man, it would probably come up with that Thong song before Sisqo (oh God, I remember who made the thong song but I can not even balance my check book)
Did I say I love Ikea? There are a lot of couples with little squirming kids, sweet love doves with “Just moved together” tattooed on their forehead, college kids with their alternate parents, and cheap butts nursing hangovers like me. As a matter of fact, I think Ikea is a continuation of Barna, i.e. people who hooked up there last night, most probably will come shopping here hand in hand six months from now (provided their blood has recycled the alcohol and the brain has temporarily cleared the weed fog).
And they say that there is no God and life has evolved spontaneously! Yeah right suckers, keep believing what you will, but how can you use an Ikea plastic bag holder and still reject miracles?