And then, of course, point number 2... Friday night.
Yeah. I can actually hear your excited intake of breath as you wait in anticipation of the absurd dickery that always comes when I write the words "Friday" and "Night", and you haven't even taken that breath yet when I wrote this.
But enough confusing tenses, it's time to get down to the getting messed up about it.
It was your usual Friday night... Well, maybe not YOUR usual Friday night, but certainly MY usual Friday night.
Start by putying on a flash fresh shirt, buttoned and adjusted to contentment, and then rounding out the dress with my one single old pair of jeans that I always use for everything and are a little too long so they have to be rolled up at the ankles.
Then quick-rinse and slick my hair, which has reached the exact length and composition that I have primarily two looks to choose from when styling it, namely Mickey Rourke and Dr. Insane-O.
Lastly, apply the finishing touches by carefully measuring out the correct amount of cologne and deftly applying it to the most effective and efficient scent locations... And then slapping on my pair of amazingly smelly sneakers. Ready to go.
By the time I get down to the only place in this town, I've already missed about fifteen minutes of happy hour. This is perfectly alright by me, because I'm not going to make use of it anyways. The other six patrons keep to themselves, and I amuse myself by interrogating the bartender, who is indeed the feminine type of last week.
I eventually manage to work my way through a couple misdirections and giggles and arrive at a final clarification of all the random back-and-forthery that's been going on regarding her nearlymarital status.
"So why did you say you didn't have a boyfriend when I asked, and then later say that you were engaged?"
"Ehh... Because a boyfriend isn't the same as a fiancee. Was that a good answer?"
"It tells me what I needed to know." (namely, that you are a git)
I'd already decided to just take it easy, make myself comfortable, and see what happens in there when the night rolls on.
Normally, I check out around 10-11 at the latest, but I remember from my one time at the night club and the stories I've heard from others that there's usually a number of people who come around much later.
After a time I was joined by some of the standard drinking league, and we got to chatting and forgetting where we put our jackets. This continues for a few hours, and then the lads decide that they're going to stop drinking beer so they can go and drink some beer.
Took me a couple tries to understand that one.
Apparently, after having not made use of the Happy Hour discount, people were going to stop ordering and drinking beer inside the pub so that they could go out into the woods, find their secret beer stash, and drink some out there. Yeah, makes sense.
In keeping with most drunken secrets, it was about as well-hidden as a cloud layer at a spotlight convention. We took a biking path into the woods for about 30 seconds, then stopped at the discreet clearing where they had piled a number of white, red and yellow plastic bags into a shallow hole dug roughly 4 feet from the path. Hint to finding: follow the empty red and green beer cans that are scattered around the area.
Only while we were there did someone consider maybe hiding the beer inside the cement fire pit also located in the clearing... You know, the one deep enough to accommodate all of the stash, that also has a lid you can put over it to conceal the contents from view.
After drinking some beer, we went back to the bar to drink some beer. Logic is still not a high priority at this point.
The next period at the bar is fairly uninteresting. Some people leave, some other people show up, they open up the so-called "discotheque" downstairs which has exactly three lights that can cycle between four different colors, and is powered by four mismatched speakers lumped in a corner and turned up to eleven. Hope you like Rihanna, because the computer isn't hooked up and the DJ can't take requests. Or at least that's what he claims. He also claims to like your suggestion, even though he can't do anything about it.
That's the second time I've heard that. I'm starting to suspect a conspiracy.
Some people start dancing. They're all male soldiers, and it's still Rihanna playing, but they don't really seem to mind. I make note of one fellow asking one of my leaguemates what kind of personality I have, and then making a dear effort to chat with me in the fantastically loud atmosphere, later commenting back to my leaguemate that I am "very difficult to communicate with".
I begin to get the feeling that I've somehow wandered into a gay bar.
Back in the slightly less thunderous upstairs area, I go back to sipping cautiously and observing the surroundings. Much later, something does.
At precisely 12:39 AM (yes, I checked my watch), two girls dance into the bar. They skip and flail their arms past the tables, beyond the bar, down the stairs, and into the discotheque. Two minutes later, they come back up the stairs and exit the bar in similar fashion.
Nobody has any idea what just happened.
At 01:03 AM, another something happens. A broad fellow with slicked-up hair, some misplaced stubble, a dark pinstripe shirt with the arms rolled up and the chest opened to reveal a gold chain and what looks like an expensive tan waltzes through the door, shortly accompanied by his harem of 12 or so girls who are all in party mode. They quickly recon the area, set up a temporary field command at one of the central tables, and then lay claim to the upper floor. With the situation cleared and under control, they proceed with limbo.
...
...
Oh my nonexistent god, I think I'm trying to hold my head in my hands, pick my jaw off the floor and bite my lip to stop laughing all at the same time. I don't know what helps most or what's working the least.
The new group stays for about an hour. In that time, somebody wins the limbo competition, two hopefuls arrive looking to charm a few of the girls away from the group, and the fellow sidles up the bar and announces to me that if I'm going to seduce the bartender, I need to get permission from her brother first. He then points at himself.
Mixed feelings again. Really wish I had a proper word to describe it. Drawing a pretty big blank though.
At one point, the group did decide to head downstairs and check out the dance floor. Have to say that a group of gals was exactly what that floor needed. Also have to say that I quite considered joining in, but...
Well, thanks to drinking at a very relaxed pace for most of the evening, I wasn't even CLOSE to being drunk enough to come over my dancing-related inhibitions. Plus... Good grief, how can people enjoy this music? I felt absolutely no compulsion to move myself to the beat. The rhythm passed right through me without touching upon any of my withered dance nerves. No jive, man, no jive.
Zip forward a teensy bit, and I'm sitting back at the bar upstairs. I've learned that there's actually one cocktail they make there that's almost worth drinking, even though it looks like it got pulled from the urinal. I've gotten enough alcohol to be sensitive and talkative, and thus spatter the bartender with a few spurts from my bleeding heart, after congratulating her on her fortune at finding someone to share her life with.
She consoles me by saying "you're still young" and "you know what the key is? Patience".
...
Lady, you're a year and a half younger than I am and you're friggin' engaged. Shut up.
Furthermore, from a sociological standpoint, due to traditional values of the community that have been in place for longer than anyone can remember, the male is always given the burden of initiative and action. As such, waiting would do me entirely more harm than good and "patience" would really be better replaced with "perseverance" in my case. And while we're on the subject-
"Sorry, it's 02:30 AM. Bar's closed. Are you going to finish that?"
Yes folks, I had completed my task. I'd closed out the bar. I had seen living proof that double-X chromosome beings exist in Bardufoss. They also have absolutely ridiculous schedules (most people are out and partying between 06:00 and 10:00. By 12:00 all the remnants are stumbling drunk and can barely remember their own names let alone be a halfway decent party partner. All hope is lost for the three last people still able to find their feet at 01:00 and beyond. Obviously, if you want a good time, you show up after 01:00).
Well, bar closed, I walked out into the street and started heading back. There were a few people standing around and looking to carry on the night from the bar scene, so I stopped on my way back and attempted contact. One of the involved practiced her English skills by telling me to "fuck off", and I continued back to the barracks.
Sooo yeah, we're good. Felt like shit again, got back, slept like a rock for five hours, then just faffed about in bed until around 09:30 when I went to breakfast. Then I wrote the previous update, did absolutely nothing else of value, and had dinner.
Dinner has so far been the high point of the day. Pancakes with soup. Traditional Norwegian cuisine.
Working on plans for what else I'm not going to this weekend.
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Topic: All I Want For Xmas is an HK416 (Read 74825 times)