Redeye - The best (un)laid plans December 02 2004

Sometimes when I'm out, people present me with things to try and blow my mind. And plenty of times during a drunken argument, I've been accused of being hardheaded. But Fri., Nov. 26, I came upon something that even I couldn't wrap my head around: a women's room door.

Now, there have been plenty of drinking nights when I've woken up with my head pounding, but this "special" Friday I took one for the team way before I made it to bed.

Following an evening hopping between Bazzaar, the Mark and MJQ, I made a late-night stop at Azul for an indie shimmy and a hipster hop at the Decatur Social Club. Around 4 a.m., however, I had to warn four female friends visiting from New Orleans, who had conglomerated in the bathroom, that it was closing time. I got no response from knocking, so I cracked open the women's restroom door and poked my head in slightly to give them a heads up. Then, suddenly it went from bar closing time to closing the door on my head time. A friend, confusing me for a pervert — and, at certain other times, somewhat understandably — kicked the door shut, with my head still in it. Glasses frames twisted, temples lacerated, not even the Jagermeister and "high gravity" beer dulled the pain of being brained.

I'll tell you, though, a visible gash makes for an awesome conversation piece. On Saturday night, despite the mild concussion, we did the Earl, Masquerade and MJQ (again), spreading the story of my suffering like ass cheeks and Vaseline.

We didn't stay long at the Earl, as one of my friends had just had her ID stolen, so couldn't get to the actual bar. However, the front room was twittering with the traditional Thanksgiving presence of comedian/"Arrested Development" star David Cross, one of many people who ended up talking shit with my very friendly friend, and former Loafer, Tyler, as she lorded over the bar.

So, nothing unusual there. But I soon became convinced that I had suffered brain damage when I let my friends drag me to the Masquerade for an event sponsored by JSin and Oni of Secretroom.net. I can't tell you how long it's been since I slid through a crowd cast like a PVC-clad production of Alice in Wonderland, or watched a shirtless muscle boy wearing a chain mail cap writhing to pounding EBM/ industrial music. But it will likely be awhile before I do it again. I soon couldn't figure out what was causing my temples to throb the most — the trauma or the melodrama.

But seriously, once out of the club, everyone was as unpretentious as can be, and far more fascinating beneath the shiny synthetic surface(s). Since my visiting friend Chastity is tight with some of the top fetishista players, we attended an after-party held by a fellow named Kip, whose hobbies include house renovations, 4 a.m. indoor hot tub parties and collecting vintage medical examination equipment. I don't know which facet impressed me more.

I can tell you one facet that impressed the ladies, however. One of the visiting girls was unhealthily obsessed with getting her some "penis in her vagina," as she so sterilely and aggravatingly put it every other sentence for days. So, really drunk, she asked this other party attendee, Chris, if she could look at his apparently impressive appendage, infamous within the scene. She got down on her knees to peep, and the resulting digital picture we took captures both clinical curiosity and only slightly feigned fear as she stares at the disrobed hot tub hopper. Later, the consensus was that the moment was funny, sure, but uniformly awkward and the antithesis of sexy — the overriding theme of my post-injury weekend. The moral of this drunken tale: There are some things you shouldn't beat someone about the head with.

Recent birthdays deserving recognition include Buckhead's Tongue & Groove, which celebrated an atypical 10 years of business, as well as promoters DRES tha Beatnik of 4Kings/Mic Club, and Randy Castello of Tight Bros. Network.Keep one RedEye open. And send all comments, questions, observations and invitations to redeye@creativeloafing.com.