California: Hot Topics & The Highlights
This past weekend I visited my best friend and roommate from college (Jaimee) on her new side of the country. The trees are way cooler, but I'm still allergic to them. (Please see attached #basic California pic that I took at Pacific Beach).
Don't leave just yet, because this post will also encompass the following concepts:
- Binge Drinking
- Providing ID
- Break Dancing
- Opening a Tab
- The VIP Section
- Suicide Doors
Let's begin by discussing the idea of binge drinking as a whole, as binge drinking is the antagonist in this Cinderella story. I have searched the internet for the perfect definition of binge drinking, and finally found it on Urban Dictionary.
2. binge drinking: formerly known as getting drunk/hammered/bladdered/legless, etc. The media's precise reason for their re-branding of this age-old practice remains unclear.
As an aside, they also define "drunk" as "when you have to hold on to the grass to keep from falling off the earth". Agreed. The reason that I can appreciate this millennial/human definition of binge drinking, is because, unless you don't know when to stop, binge drinking is just drinking. I'm 26, I don't go to a bar to taste some whiskey and head home at a reasonable hour. (If I start doing that, it's because I turned 40). Some people go to brunch to sip a mimosa, others go to brunch to sip bottomless mimosas. Jaimee and I drink bottomless mimosas. And bottomless mimosas* (*vodka sodas...) lead to some interesting things.
Providing ID
No one checks your ID. They watch you struggle to get it out of your wallet to determine how sober/bold you are, and then they just touch it and give it back. My personal favorite is the hold-it-to-the-light check. Yes, please get your fancy flashlight and check to see if my Massachusetts ID (the hardest to replicate) is fake. Reasons I know this: it's May 20, 2017 and my ID says that I was born on May 20, 1991 and my ID expires on May 20, 2022. What do all of these things have in common? Gee, I don't know. Wish me a goddamn happy birthday, man. Come on!
Break Dancing
The bouncer has half-ass checked my ID and now we are inside. We bee-line to the nearest bar to order the alcohol. Suddenly, it's been three hours, there's like 30 middle-aged dudes who have kids your age, and everyone's "break dancing". It's a sad sight. However, there's a light at the end of the tunnel. I side-glance at Jaimee. She's shaking her head saying, "don't do it". I'm watching the sad break dancing. Jaimee whispers in my ear, "just kidding, DO IT". Everyone's gotta move aside because I'm wearing a shirt that says "literally cannot" and I'm literally about to do The Worm on this disgusting concrete floor. Instantly popular.
Opening a Tab
So, it's been almost 24 hours since The Worm incident and while my hangover has passed, my pelvic bone is still bruised. Not a flattering injury OR backstory. Either way, here we are at the nearest dive bar. We order two well drinks and try to pay with a card, but we HAVEN'T MET THE $10 MINIMUM. I'm sorry, ma'am, perhaps you didn't hear us, but we ordered the alcohol version. The bartender confirms that these drinks do, in fact, contain alcohol, but they are basically free because this is a dive bar. Now it's a whole thing. We have to open a tab because it's 2017 and cash has germs on it. Suddenly, there are Wendy's french fries, it's everyone in the bar's birthday including mine, and tequila shots are fired. Here's a really cute picture of me considering taking a shot of tequila and not doing it. Oh, what's that? You completely forgot that we opened a tab? Yeah, so did we, and a word to the wise: do not visit a dive bar in the daylight to pickup the breadcrumbs of your evening. It is degrading and embarrassing and worse than when you got there last night.
The VIP Section
The VIP Section of a club is exactly the same as the rest of the club, except you have less room to dance, a giant bucket of ice, and a person who comes sprinting over the second you even start to consider preparing your own drink from the provided ingredients. We find ourselves at Bang Bang, utterly sober, waiting in a line (and I only wait in line if there's pizza at the end). We heard there was a Ryan Gosling bathroom, so here we are. There's all these line things happening and we are too sober to understand how to go to the front of the line and just simply walk in, so we're waiting. It's really stupid. We finally get inside, get the alcohol, and we look around. I think we are actually on Mount Olympus because everyone is dressed like Hercules and there are sparklers (definitely a fire hazard) and a giant carousel horse that a girl is riding (definitely a safety hazard). It's a lot. Naturally, I'm brutally uncomfortable so I'm chugging this drink that is effectively the size of my small fist. Coincidentally, this place charges a lot more than the dive bar. Anyway, once we have taken in the fanfare we realize that most of this club is occupied by "VIP tables" and we must join one if we want to survive. We begin the hunt for a suitable environment. Bachelorette Party at Table 1. Bachelor Party at Table 2 (seemingly meshing together, so bye), Wedding Party at Table 3 (what?), another Bachelorette Party at Table 4, but what's this at Table 5? A birthday party. Four dudes. No females. A fresh bottle of Ciroc. And Chelsea and Jaimee. This is my birthday now, pal.
Suicide Doors
I know you've been dying for me to get to the suicide doors part. The VIP Section went well. We made some friends once I was done behaving as awkwardly as a human possibly can while still being part of a social situation. We leave club with said friends. There is a man wearing a giant arrow that says "PIZZA". The pizza is historically awful in San Diego but we still ask "where's the pizza?" and he says "that way". We are escorted to the front of the pizza line for reasons that remain unclear. It's pizza and ice waters all around. Could this night get any better? Yes, it could! Because the friends have offered to give us a ride home to PB and save us the money for an Uber! I'm considering one of two scenarios; either we get a free ride home and somebody wants a Happy Ending, or we get a free ride to an unknown destination and in years to come they make a movie about our kidnapping and eventual sale into human trafficking in Mexico. My only request is that when they do make the movie, please have someone respectable play the role of the brunette, and at least mention that it was my 26th birthday. What I don't realize, is that there is a third scenario coming at me real quick. We are walking through this parking garage, it's 3:00am, and suddenly this dude is like "this is my car, please get in, I'll get the door for you" and the door whips up sideways like a spaceship. I'm like "so I'm guessing you're a social worker like me". He wasn't. Anyway, scenario three brings us to the backseat of a 2017 BMW M8 with suicide doors and all sorts of gadgets and lights and engine noises and you feel like you're speeding even though you're going 40mph. Happy fucking birthday, right? Don't even google it, you'll throw up. Just kidding, google it.
xo Chelsea
Opening a Tab
The VIP Section
The VIP Section of a club is exactly the same as the rest of the club, except you have less room to dance, a giant bucket of ice, and a person who comes sprinting over the second you even start to consider preparing your own drink from the provided ingredients. We find ourselves at Bang Bang, utterly sober, waiting in a line (and I only wait in line if there's pizza at the end). We heard there was a Ryan Gosling bathroom, so here we are. There's all these line things happening and we are too sober to understand how to go to the front of the line and just simply walk in, so we're waiting. It's really stupid. We finally get inside, get the alcohol, and we look around. I think we are actually on Mount Olympus because everyone is dressed like Hercules and there are sparklers (definitely a fire hazard) and a giant carousel horse that a girl is riding (definitely a safety hazard). It's a lot. Naturally, I'm brutally uncomfortable so I'm chugging this drink that is effectively the size of my small fist. Coincidentally, this place charges a lot more than the dive bar. Anyway, once we have taken in the fanfare we realize that most of this club is occupied by "VIP tables" and we must join one if we want to survive. We begin the hunt for a suitable environment. Bachelorette Party at Table 1. Bachelor Party at Table 2 (seemingly meshing together, so bye), Wedding Party at Table 3 (what?), another Bachelorette Party at Table 4, but what's this at Table 5? A birthday party. Four dudes. No females. A fresh bottle of Ciroc. And Chelsea and Jaimee. This is my birthday now, pal.
Suicide Doors
I know you've been dying for me to get to the suicide doors part. The VIP Section went well. We made some friends once I was done behaving as awkwardly as a human possibly can while still being part of a social situation. We leave club with said friends. There is a man wearing a giant arrow that says "PIZZA". The pizza is historically awful in San Diego but we still ask "where's the pizza?" and he says "that way". We are escorted to the front of the pizza line for reasons that remain unclear. It's pizza and ice waters all around. Could this night get any better? Yes, it could! Because the friends have offered to give us a ride home to PB and save us the money for an Uber! I'm considering one of two scenarios; either we get a free ride home and somebody wants a Happy Ending, or we get a free ride to an unknown destination and in years to come they make a movie about our kidnapping and eventual sale into human trafficking in Mexico. My only request is that when they do make the movie, please have someone respectable play the role of the brunette, and at least mention that it was my 26th birthday. What I don't realize, is that there is a third scenario coming at me real quick. We are walking through this parking garage, it's 3:00am, and suddenly this dude is like "this is my car, please get in, I'll get the door for you" and the door whips up sideways like a spaceship. I'm like "so I'm guessing you're a social worker like me". He wasn't. Anyway, scenario three brings us to the backseat of a 2017 BMW M8 with suicide doors and all sorts of gadgets and lights and engine noises and you feel like you're speeding even though you're going 40mph. Happy fucking birthday, right? Don't even google it, you'll throw up. Just kidding, google it.
xo Chelsea
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