Chicks. Bouncer. Beer.

(Warning: There is some salty language in this blog. Sometimes I need to use salty language to capture the spirit of an event, especially an event where salty language is used.)

I've recently started a new job. It's great so far and I'm enjoying it. I'm learning a lot about the agency and my coworkers and I'm excited about the prospects of working there for the foreseeable future.

I am, to be honest, less than excited about having to get up (relatively) early in the morning every workday, and I am learning how and when I can still go out, stay out late, and be functional and pleasant at work... or at least as functional and pleasant as I ever get.

Last night was the latest experiment, and not only did my workday go just fine, but I also got a juicy story out of it.

Archangel picked me up at about 9:45 PM and we drove from my place to Capitol Hill to meet up with TM2000 and his Sister-Wives. The general plan was to hit up some bars and have some drinks and have some fun.

For those of you who are not familiar with Seattle neighborhoods, allow me to say something about Capitol Hill. I think of it as perhaps the most "alternative" area in Seattle. As I txted a friend last night, I never feel like I fit in because I am unpierced, have no tattoos, and am not attracted to people of my own sex. I also was not sporting facial hair, so I was totally out of place.

What I did do, though, was dress a bit oddly. I wore my white jeans and some new white Adidas shoes I've recently acquired... the white/white combination looked a bit silly, but (as Archangel pointed out) it was ironic, and irony works in Capitol Hill.

Capitol Hill was actually well and good, but nothing terrifically exciting happened (short of me seeing TM2000's week-old mustache for the first time). Archangel dropped me off outside of Ozzie's on his way home, though, and it wasn't long before all hell broke loose.

OK. That might be hyperbole. But check this out.

The bar was pretty empty. It was about 1:00 and I was fortunate enough to get to sing a song... I covered for StarStar as she took a short break, and I was approached by a chick.

Not approached like, "Hey. You're cute. Impregnate me." Approached like, "I wnna snng aa soong!" The woman had been drinking.

She explained that she was from South America and her father owned a company in Kirkland, and that she had known the ladies she was with (three in all) for a long time. Argentina had a nice-sized rock on her left ring finger and seemed like a nice enough woman. I even talked to one of her friends, although I don't remember what about.

Closing time. Every new beginning comes at some other beginning's end. I went outside to check my txts and relax for a moment before starting the onerous two block trek back to my cat-filled apartment. It wasn't the end of the night. It wasn't the beginning of the end. But it was the end of the beginning.

For the next hour, I watched and listened and smiled and mocked and generally had a great time as I took in more stimulation than anyone can normally be exposed to at 2:00 AM on a street corner without being exposed to some sort of social disease.

It started off innocently. Argentina and her three friends (Friendly, Drunky, and Misandrist) filed out of the bar and merrily made their way westward on Mercer. Everyone (which was them and me, basically) was in a good mood and things were happy.

Until Argentina pulled an open bottle of beer out of her purse.

Ozzie's has security guys working the door. On weekends, there are five or six guys that watch the door and work the rooms to ensure that bloodshed is minimized. (That sounds like a joke. I can assure you that it's not really.)

On Monday night, there is one person on duty. I will call the security guy from last night Bouncer because it's a shockingly original name. Bouncer is a nice guy. He's pretty laid-back and I get along with him well (of course, to be fair, I get along with most people at least reasonably well). He takes his job very seriously, of course, which is a wise thing to do in that business, but he seemed to be in a good mood.

Until Argentina pulled an open bottle of beer out of her purse.

Now, in spite of my rather extensive legal training, I am no expert on dram shop laws. I suppose I will have to take solace in simply knowing what dram shop laws are. I do know, however, that establishments that provide alcohol can be liable for what patrons do after leaving the bar or tavern or Super Bowl party at Grandma's house.

I also understand that drinking alcohol while walking down the street is not legal and that bars are not supposed to allow alcohol to leave the premises.

Something approaching this body of knowledge must have driven Bouncer to do what he did next: he quickly moved from the door to where the four women were walking. They had this little exchange:

Bouncer: Do you have a beer?

Argentina: What? (Putting the beer back into her purse.)

Bouncer: Do you have a fucking beer?

Argentina: No.

Misandrist: Don't reach into her purse!

Drunky: Don't take her beer!

Bouncer: I'll take her beer and I'll pour it on her head! I'm not gonna lose my job because you smuggled beer out of the bar!

Women: *General cries of dismay*

I don't know if he actually poured the beer on her head. He definitely poured it out in front of her face, and maybe some got on her shoes. I was too far away to see the beer stream even as I could make out the conversation very clearly.

Bouncer took the now-empty bottle and went back to his post, presumably expecting the women to continue their jaunt home. If he expected that, though, he was mistaken.

Back in April, I met a remarkable woman. Patrón and I had an adventure that involved us getting yelled at by a Hotel/Casino employee. Her response was general disdain and she asked him the legendary question of, "Do you know who I am?" Fortunately, I was there to blunt her anger and it did not escalate.

When Argentina literally asked Bouncer, "Do you know who I am?" there was no one there would could contain her. Over the next 10 minutes, she spouted several excellent lines, including:

• "You have no idea who you're messing with."
• "I make more in a day than you do in a month."
• "Sleep well tonight because you're going to be on the unemployment line tomorrow."
• "I'm calling the cops and you're going to jail."

First of all: insert as many exclamation points as you feel are necessary. They definitely were present in person.

Secondly, yes. She actually did call the cops. More on that in a moment.

As Argentina was railing against Bouncer, the other women were at various levels of activity. Specifically, Friendly was hanging back. She was a bit upset but just wanted to go home. I talked to her for a moment and encouraged her to gather her friends, go home, and call or stop by the next day if they wanted to complain to the manager. She agreed and tried, in vain, to get her friends to calm down.

Drunky was rather subdued, too. She looked angry, and she might have been spouting off, but I don't remember what she said at this point.

Misandrist was not subdued. She was not happy and she was letting Bouncer know it. Over the course of the first five minutes, she communicated the following to Bouncer:

• "You are ugly!"
• "Your mom didn't love you, did she?"
• "What's it like to be so ugly and gay?"

It was classy.

She also made what was, in my estimation, a big mistake. She got up in Bouncer's face. Literally. She wasn't as tall as he was, but she was shouting at him from about three inches away from his face. She is a lucky woman that he had good self-restraint.

After five minutes, Misandrist came over at the behest of Friendly and was, seemingly, taking a break from chastising Bouncer (who was still getting it from Argentina with both barrels). I made a mistake of giving her some friendly advice.

"I don't think you should get in his face like that. He's a good guy but if you head butt him or something he might drop you."

Oops. That didn't go over well.

She took that, seemingly, as a challenge. She walked up to him again and, over the remaining five minutes or so added some spins to her classic lines:

• "Are you gay because your mama didn't love you?"
• "You are bald and ugly!"
• "Why are you so ugly and gay and hated by your mama?"

She also was putting her hand about an inch from his nose. She kicked the door closed on him twice. She kept on going on, even as Friendly politely and quietly tried to get everyone to go home.

Bouncer, though, had gone inside, not to be seen again.

Which left me with three angry women and huge potential for fun at their expense... honestly, though? I wanted them to relax and go home and be happy. Of course, I had to settle for fun at their expense.

The "fun" started off with me talking to Drunky. I think she had approached me, and the conversation went something like this:

Me: So... fun night, huh?

Drunky: What?

Me: You guys should probably just go home and sleep and complain tomorrow.

Friendly: Yeah...

Drunky: Fuck that. Fuck YOU. Who the fuck are you, anyway?

Me: What?

Drunky: Who are you? You followed us outside and now you're talking shit?

Me: Well, it was closing time. I think that I actually came out before you, so you guys followed me.

Drunky: Fuck you. Fuck you and your white pants.

She then wandered off. Argentina was on the phone, talking to someone and bemoaning that the cops had not showed up yet. Misandrist was sitting outside the door, seemingly calmed down. I asked permission to sit next to her (not RIGHT next to her, but a couple of feet away) and we started to have a reasonable discussion. She said I had white teeth and everything. Then the tide shifted.

I think she asked if I had seen what happened. I said that I saw Argentina had smuggled a beer out. Misandrist did NOT want to hear that. She would not admit that Argentina had smuggled a beer. She wanted to focus, of course, on the alleged beer bath and on the aftermath (is that the first time those words have been coupled? "Beer bath and aftermath" has a great ring to it...).

She then turned her ire towards me, forgetting about the whiteness of my teeth and focusing on the whiteness of my pants. She informed me that white pants went out about 10 years ago, which was news to me (given I didn't know they were all that popular in 1999) and told me to go home. When I politely declined, she finally wandered over to Friendly on her way home.

StarStar emerged from a side door at this point. She sat down where Misandrist had been and lit up a cigarette. Drunky came over to see how Argentina's call (her second one to the police) was going and when she saw StarStar she stopped. And then she picked up on her assault on my dignity. The leadup and bomb-dropping went something like this:

Drunky: That guy is going to get fired!

Me: I really don't think so.

Drunky: What? Argentina's on the phone now. The cops will be here and he will be GONE!

Me: It's about 2:30 AM. Do you think that the police are going to respond to a drunk girl who claimed she was covered in beer by a bouncer?

Drunky: ...

Me: In any case, do you think it's smart for her to be calling? She broke the law by drinking from an open container on the street. It reminds me of a drug dealer calling the cops because some guy didn't pay for his pot.

Drunky: Shut the fuck up. You weren't even here.

Me: Sure I was. I was right here, watching and listening. She had a beer.

Drunky: No she didn't!

Me: What? Aren't you claiming he dumped a beer on her?

Drunky: Yes.

Me: So where did the beer come from?

Drunky: I dunno.

Me: You think that he grabbed a beer, ran down the sidewalk, and dumped a beer on her for no reason? That's your story?

Drunky: Yes.

Me: ... umm... OK. I doubt the cops would believe it, but OK.

Drunky: Why are you even HERE? In your white pants...

Me: *shrug*

Drunky: Your gay white pants. Fag.

Me: Wow. Homophobia. Nice.

Drunky: I'm not a homophobe! I have gay friends.

Me: You just called me a fag.

Drunky: You're such a fag. A fucking fag.

Me: Classy. And not homophobic.

Drunky: It's OK, fag. It's OK if you like to take it up the ass...

Me: Wow. (Looking at StarStar in disbelief.)

Drunky: I like it up the ass, too. You can admit it.

Me: Classy.

She clearly had rattled me. Or not.

To me, being called gay is like being called left-handed. I'm not left-handed, but I'm not really offended if someone calls me that.

The only complication with it is when I try to explain that I'm not gay. When I explain to someone that that I am right-handed, it's pretty easy to do without offending left-handed people. I often feel like I'm being defensive (and/or offensive to homosexuals) when I state that I actually am not into dudes.

In any case, Drunky wandered off. I was there with StarStar and Argentina, who had finally got off the phone.

I tried again. I told her that it was too late at night to do much of anything about anything, and that she should, if she wanted to complain, call or come back the next day.

Fortunately, something clicked in her head. I could see a light bulb light up in her eyes as she looked over at her friends and shouted, "Hey guys! He has a good point. I should just call tomorrow!"

The response was prompt and predictable: "Don't listen to that fag!"

But she did. We dispersed and I giggled most of the way home.