“Well, so&so & I had a couple of pool parties at the Uptown earlier this week.” Or so says supposed friend of mine.
“Oh, cool, well thanks for inviting me,” I reply with as much sarcasm as I can ooze into that sentence. Because I wasn’t surprised that they didn’t invite me, but how middle school is it of us to brag about the parties to the people that weren’t invited?
“Yeah, I guess there was one there tonight, too.”
“I wasn’t invited to that one either! I guess I’m just not really a part of that social circle, or something,” was my somewhat humble and/or snarky reply. Because, let’s be honest, do I really want to show up to the overpriced newfangled ultra-gentrification-plus white people pool parties that occur in those ersatz homages to what was probably at one point a good assimilation of architecture erected over downtown? No.
“Well, your social circle is just really small.”
Thanks, Billy, I really needed you to reaffirm the fact that my paranoia has instituted a strict “no transplants, no rich white people” rule upon the people I associate with. I like to think that my social circle isn’t really *that* small, it’s just that I have opted not to associate with certain people who probably read that tweet from last weekend that proclaimed I am a “slut.” Or all those comments on the old blog posts I wrote for Art Faccia claiming that all I do is “fuck people.”
But enough about my need to validate the people I opt to hang out with. As soon as that conversation was over, I sipped up the rest of my scotch & soda, and, despite the fact that Ruby Room probably would have offered me a pleasing modicum of bland boys that I could sleep with that evening, I opted to cut the fuck out of that joint and bike on down to the Night Light.
Jack London Square is a generally tacky location reserved for tourists, but seeing as Uptown has been taken over by overzealous pseudo-hipsters with too much of their parents money, I have opted to abscond the absurd white-ification of a previously drug addled neighborhood. Apparently, Jack London Square, which I remember from my childhood for its sub-tourist attractions that draw in lazy locals for convivial weekend events like the farmer’s market, had been previously pegged by the municipal government as a probable up and coming neighborhood. However, City Hall failed to realize that the influx of artists to Uptown would make that neighborhood, rather than Jack London, the newest, hippest place for out of towners with money to blow wads on alcohol and then after the bars closed probably crack cocaine. Which basically left Jack London with illogically high rents, condominiums and otherwise vacant properties. Hence making it a location that most hipsters generally abscond, which, surprisingly, works out well for me, because after my year long Oakland-hipster-exhaustion has settled in, thank god for bars like the Night Light.
Miguel, aka Miggy Stardust, aka my roommate, was DJing, which meant that the customers at the Night Light that night consisted of a well curated clientele of close friends, regulars and locals. Less the, “oh my god, I can’t fucking stand you, I fucked you 6 months ago and now you can’t make eye contact with me anymore” and more the, “Who are you? I’ve never seen you before, and you’re rather attractive, do you want to get to know me?” variety.
It was a very Mount Everyone themed night. Which, if you are still not informed as to the who’s-what of Mount Everyone, let’s just say, they throw some fucking amazing parties and fuck a lot. (And by “they” I mean me and my friends.) So rather than be affronted with the, “Your social circle sucks” mien that Ruby Room had afforded me, I was pleasantly met with the attractive slew of people that I had hoped to see, namely, Miguel, Kiki, Feo, Jamie Hustle, Alix Black Book, her date Patrick, Colby, Veronica, John, Scobey, Scott, Kevin, and whoever else happened to wander into the bar that evening. I mean, what can I say, there’s something to be said about being able to walk into a bar and knowing that everyone there will not be waiting with fresh insults on their tongues to throw in your general direction.
After being comped a tongue-shockingly refreshing jalapeno-cucumber-lemon margarita, the mood elevation that accompanied the inevitable, “Do you want to have a 4 way with me and 2 other people?” conversation was quite remarkable.
I try not to smoke cigarettes but I always fail. Because despite the fact that I barely enjoy the neurological lift that nicotine inhalation affords me, there’s some vague social pleasure that lifting a narrow cylindrical cancer-inducing cargo affords me.
Whenever I write, I never mention the names of people that I don’t give a fuck about, because if I don’t give a fuck about them, you shouldn’t either. But the people who are cool, you’ll know them by name by now.
Sometimes I drink Fernet by myself in bed, and it’s better than…not many things.