less than zero
I'm sure there are more than a few man-boys my age who experienced their first odd tingly feeling thanks to the smoky-eyed, wild-haired guitarist/vocalist of the Bangles, Susanna Hoffs.
But this isn't about Susanna, really. Just kinda. The Bangles weren't just eye candy, though that was a big part of their thing, I guess, they also put out some pretty damn good pop songs for their day. One such hit was "Hazy Shade of Winter," which wasn't their song, but far superior to the original, and the song used as the de facto theme of the late-80s cocaine-fueled, Me Decade lifestyle pic Less Than Zero, which featured Robert Downey Jr. in his most prophetic role as a drug addict and Andrew McCartney playing the same rich-boy prick who, no, totally cares, like he did in every goddamn movie.
The world has gotten older and wiser, but Susanna Hoffs is still a knockout and rich people still like to party like they don't have a care in the world--because they don't. This weekend, I found myself in a home on the outskirts of town, in a detached cul de sac with a view of the foothills, far removed from the hustle-less bustle of Downtown Collegetown. I was invited by the party's queen bee, who works at my office, and congregated with the rest of the office folks who'd straggled there to shower themselves in free booze and high living.
The party was populated by all the town bigwigs--business men and women, their trophy wives and husbands and an assortment of golddiggers both male and female. I saw 40-year-old women with three year old tits, refurbished asses and impossible, line-less tans.
It was like nothing I'd seen before. Some of these people had to be grandparents, or at least creepy uncles, juiced to the gills on mixed drinks and Jell-O shots, talking about golf courses, vacation homes and property values.
So I drank heavily and stuck with my coworkers. I started with a beer and a Jell-O shot at 5pm, and by the end of the night (2am), I'd ingested so much sugar-laced alcohol, I was transformed into Screaming Mad Drunk-ass J, who only comes out for special occasions. I hate him, because he talks a lot, but people seem to get a kick out of the over-exuberant, vaguely huggy bastard. I don't realize he'd made an appearance until the following day when I hear things like "You were having a good time last night." I usually respond with a groan, but to date, I haven't done anything to completely embarass myself. Though, I guess waving happily at the elfishly cute and heavily blue eyeshadowed blonde bartender whenever I wanted a drink was a bit much. Well it would've been if I wasn't such a charming bastard.
Hehe.
At 2am, I embarked on an arduous task of trying to get home, which, though only required calling a cab, wasn't as easy as it sounds. I called the cab and suddenly there was a party of nine or so all looking to come along, which was good seeing as I was in Buttfuck Nowhere and only had ten bucks in my pocket. The crew was entirely made up of coworkers who were just as, if not more so, hammered than I was and some creepy guy named Richard who seemed to emerge from the party. He was the first to get dropped off, and the bastard only left us with three bucks. Things always stay the same, even though they got us drunk, the rich still managed to stiff the poor.
But this isn't about Susanna, really. Just kinda. The Bangles weren't just eye candy, though that was a big part of their thing, I guess, they also put out some pretty damn good pop songs for their day. One such hit was "Hazy Shade of Winter," which wasn't their song, but far superior to the original, and the song used as the de facto theme of the late-80s cocaine-fueled, Me Decade lifestyle pic Less Than Zero, which featured Robert Downey Jr. in his most prophetic role as a drug addict and Andrew McCartney playing the same rich-boy prick who, no, totally cares, like he did in every goddamn movie.
The world has gotten older and wiser, but Susanna Hoffs is still a knockout and rich people still like to party like they don't have a care in the world--because they don't. This weekend, I found myself in a home on the outskirts of town, in a detached cul de sac with a view of the foothills, far removed from the hustle-less bustle of Downtown Collegetown. I was invited by the party's queen bee, who works at my office, and congregated with the rest of the office folks who'd straggled there to shower themselves in free booze and high living.
The party was populated by all the town bigwigs--business men and women, their trophy wives and husbands and an assortment of golddiggers both male and female. I saw 40-year-old women with three year old tits, refurbished asses and impossible, line-less tans.
It was like nothing I'd seen before. Some of these people had to be grandparents, or at least creepy uncles, juiced to the gills on mixed drinks and Jell-O shots, talking about golf courses, vacation homes and property values.
So I drank heavily and stuck with my coworkers. I started with a beer and a Jell-O shot at 5pm, and by the end of the night (2am), I'd ingested so much sugar-laced alcohol, I was transformed into Screaming Mad Drunk-ass J, who only comes out for special occasions. I hate him, because he talks a lot, but people seem to get a kick out of the over-exuberant, vaguely huggy bastard. I don't realize he'd made an appearance until the following day when I hear things like "You were having a good time last night." I usually respond with a groan, but to date, I haven't done anything to completely embarass myself. Though, I guess waving happily at the elfishly cute and heavily blue eyeshadowed blonde bartender whenever I wanted a drink was a bit much. Well it would've been if I wasn't such a charming bastard.
Hehe.
At 2am, I embarked on an arduous task of trying to get home, which, though only required calling a cab, wasn't as easy as it sounds. I called the cab and suddenly there was a party of nine or so all looking to come along, which was good seeing as I was in Buttfuck Nowhere and only had ten bucks in my pocket. The crew was entirely made up of coworkers who were just as, if not more so, hammered than I was and some creepy guy named Richard who seemed to emerge from the party. He was the first to get dropped off, and the bastard only left us with three bucks. Things always stay the same, even though they got us drunk, the rich still managed to stiff the poor.
4 comments:
But no one died in the car during the trip and no one noticed until the body was almost completely throught rigor mortis, right?
it could have happened, but luckily no. we noticed that dead body well before rigor mortis.
I wish i had 3 yold tits!
hahahaha
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