86
R. Linda:
With my eye still hurting, my eyepatch still on, and eyedrops rolling down me cheeks, I got meself ready for a night on the town with my coworkers. They all refer to yours truly as "Sully" and act like they've known me for years. I have concluded that this is an American trait of familiarity that clashes with many foreign cultures, and makes for a sign of disrespect if you haven't lived in America to understand it is anything but that.
Feeling sort of odd about the slaps on the back from the men, the touchy feelie hugs and kisses from ladies I do not know, I entered into an evening of Friday Night Raunch. What is FNR you might ask? Well, let me enlighten you. I met up with the first group (yes, they move in packs they do, each one meeting up with the other in different places), at Union Square and there we hit a couple of water holes as they call bars, to what I call pubs. At each one, we picked up a few more of our associates until there were 15 of us. That's a large drinking group to my estimation and I did feel like I was on a London pub crawl.
We must have hit five different night spots, the first few being straight-out sports bars, then a couple of places with dance floors, where quite a few of us got animated on the floor and danced like buffoons, and finally, we all felt the need to fill our bellies with something more than beer. So, that took us to a nightclub. Now the difference here, was that we were all seated at three large tables (since we all couldn't fit around one), and a floor show was put on while we ate and drank some more.
You'd be interested to know that the place was having Fiesta Night so the food was Mexican with huge Margaritas. We all were blasted and loud, but that was alright, everyone in the place seemed in the same condition. the entertainment was, are you ready? One Miguel and his Chacharas. I don't know what chacharas are, but I was thinking chickens. Yes, there I was treated to flamenco dancing. It started like this, the Mariachi band played most of the night, strolling among the tables, a little Spanish guitar here, a few lively toe-tapping songs there, and a few jokes tossed in. Then the stage went black and one of the troubadours came forward and announced with outstretched hand, Miguel and his Chacharas. I think I expected a man in a sombrero with castanets and that's what I got. There in the dark, a single spotlight fell upon a man dressed in tight black clothing, trousers high-waisted, high-heeled boots, a tiny jacket, and a hat with little balls hanging from the brim. There he was, arms akimbo with castanets, yes castanets, click, click, click, click, CLICK!
A single guitar strum and suddenly he snapped to life, with erect posture as he stamped his high-heeled boots hard upon the wooden floor and moved centimetres in a high-heeled boot tattoo to rival the best Irish dancer I could think of -- one American, Michael Flatley! Ok, that out of the way, the man strutted his stuff, and I mean it was loud and Mexican hoots and words were being flung in his direction and the more we got into the music and his dance, the more he strutted his stuff and the faster his feet pounded and we clapped harder in time to his foot beats. OLAY!
The applause was thunderous and many shouts of "Bravo Miguel!" and such. Then everything went black. Suddenly a reddish spot appeared and there was the handsome Miguel, sans hat, and he flapped an arm to his right and three more spots zoomed on to reveal three Spanish female dancers in full flamenco gear.
What transpired next can only be described as a rooster herding his chickens around the barnyard. He'd move towards them, they'd all move to the other side of the stage, everyone stamping and whooping all the while and round and round they went, like he was a Rhode Island Red after each one. I was dizzy by the time it ended. Dizzy with drink and me one good eye had followed the chickens, I mean the ladies around and around the stage so many times I was feeling decidedly not meself.
Suddenly and without warning, I was yanked up out of my seat by the Mariachi along with a few others from our huge tables and thrown into the spotlight. There we were all put around a giant sombrero along with Miguel and the chickens. There Miguel and the ladies proceeded to teach us the Mexican hat dance. Well, being a good-natured sort, I took up the cues and learned the simple steps and away we went. Only it got faster and faster and my head was swimming as it 'twere filled to the brim with tequila. That got me into the state that is known as falling down drunk. I landed flat on me arse (as did some others), so I wasn't the only one. I swear they picked out the heavy drinkers in the crowd for this bit of frivolity.
Now I be sitting home with not only a sore eye, a banger of a hangover, but a sore arse as well. Be a long time before I go out with me new "friends" for an FNR.
Gabe
R. Linda:
With my eye still hurting, my eyepatch still on, and eyedrops rolling down me cheeks, I got meself ready for a night on the town with my coworkers. They all refer to yours truly as "Sully" and act like they've known me for years. I have concluded that this is an American trait of familiarity that clashes with many foreign cultures, and makes for a sign of disrespect if you haven't lived in America to understand it is anything but that.
Feeling sort of odd about the slaps on the back from the men, the touchy feelie hugs and kisses from ladies I do not know, I entered into an evening of Friday Night Raunch. What is FNR you might ask? Well, let me enlighten you. I met up with the first group (yes, they move in packs they do, each one meeting up with the other in different places), at Union Square and there we hit a couple of water holes as they call bars, to what I call pubs. At each one, we picked up a few more of our associates until there were 15 of us. That's a large drinking group to my estimation and I did feel like I was on a London pub crawl.
We must have hit five different night spots, the first few being straight-out sports bars, then a couple of places with dance floors, where quite a few of us got animated on the floor and danced like buffoons, and finally, we all felt the need to fill our bellies with something more than beer. So, that took us to a nightclub. Now the difference here, was that we were all seated at three large tables (since we all couldn't fit around one), and a floor show was put on while we ate and drank some more.
You'd be interested to know that the place was having Fiesta Night so the food was Mexican with huge Margaritas. We all were blasted and loud, but that was alright, everyone in the place seemed in the same condition. the entertainment was, are you ready? One Miguel and his Chacharas. I don't know what chacharas are, but I was thinking chickens. Yes, there I was treated to flamenco dancing. It started like this, the Mariachi band played most of the night, strolling among the tables, a little Spanish guitar here, a few lively toe-tapping songs there, and a few jokes tossed in. Then the stage went black and one of the troubadours came forward and announced with outstretched hand, Miguel and his Chacharas. I think I expected a man in a sombrero with castanets and that's what I got. There in the dark, a single spotlight fell upon a man dressed in tight black clothing, trousers high-waisted, high-heeled boots, a tiny jacket, and a hat with little balls hanging from the brim. There he was, arms akimbo with castanets, yes castanets, click, click, click, click, CLICK!
A single guitar strum and suddenly he snapped to life, with erect posture as he stamped his high-heeled boots hard upon the wooden floor and moved centimetres in a high-heeled boot tattoo to rival the best Irish dancer I could think of -- one American, Michael Flatley! Ok, that out of the way, the man strutted his stuff, and I mean it was loud and Mexican hoots and words were being flung in his direction and the more we got into the music and his dance, the more he strutted his stuff and the faster his feet pounded and we clapped harder in time to his foot beats. OLAY!
The applause was thunderous and many shouts of "Bravo Miguel!" and such. Then everything went black. Suddenly a reddish spot appeared and there was the handsome Miguel, sans hat, and he flapped an arm to his right and three more spots zoomed on to reveal three Spanish female dancers in full flamenco gear.
What transpired next can only be described as a rooster herding his chickens around the barnyard. He'd move towards them, they'd all move to the other side of the stage, everyone stamping and whooping all the while and round and round they went, like he was a Rhode Island Red after each one. I was dizzy by the time it ended. Dizzy with drink and me one good eye had followed the chickens, I mean the ladies around and around the stage so many times I was feeling decidedly not meself.
Suddenly and without warning, I was yanked up out of my seat by the Mariachi along with a few others from our huge tables and thrown into the spotlight. There we were all put around a giant sombrero along with Miguel and the chickens. There Miguel and the ladies proceeded to teach us the Mexican hat dance. Well, being a good-natured sort, I took up the cues and learned the simple steps and away we went. Only it got faster and faster and my head was swimming as it 'twere filled to the brim with tequila. That got me into the state that is known as falling down drunk. I landed flat on me arse (as did some others), so I wasn't the only one. I swear they picked out the heavy drinkers in the crowd for this bit of frivolity.
Now I be sitting home with not only a sore eye, a banger of a hangover, but a sore arse as well. Be a long time before I go out with me new "friends" for an FNR.
Gabe
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