2000-04-16

Bachelorette Party

I was at a bachelorette party last night, celebrating the impending nuptials of my friend Diane. I would have faithfully recorded the goings-on of this bachelorette party last night; in fact I did try to do so, but the simple truth of the matter is that I was too drunk to type. So tonight, in that awful clarity that only a vodka tonic hangover can produce, I will piece together what I can recall of this night of roaring estrogen, Eurotrash clubgoers and nouvelle cuisine. And vodka. Lots of vodka.

What is so damn amusing about this all is that I was thrust into a nightlife that I had heretofore only read about in the city's chic-er free publications. While certainly I consider myself the elfin gamine sans pareille, my personal brand of fabulousness does not go over well in the real clubs. Dinner at Bomboa, a hip eatery in the Back Bay specializing in French-Brazilian cuisine and staffed almost entirely by hunky Latinos in tight black t-shirts and zebra-striped aprons. They were everywhere, refilling my wine glass, getting me fresh salad forks. I felt lecherous and undeserving of such hipster pampering.

There is nothing quite like being in a hip eatery with a bunch of foul-mouthed women who are tossing thongs and penis-shaped lipsticks across the table at each other.

After dinner, fortified by the plentiful refills, the mob of us lurched down Boylston Street in search of a place where we might, in the words of my friend Stephanie, "find cheesiness." We ended up at a trendy bar that I'd passed hundreds of times during my heady graduate school days. Although it was barely 9 pm, the bouncers had set up velvet ropes in front of the door. Ordinarily I suspect they would not have let us in...certainly they would not have let me in, with my thrifted knock-off Pucci dress and my ROTC shoes...but at that point we were tipsy, and had draped Diane, the bride-to-be, in a pink feather boa and rhinestone tiara. We were conspicuous and cheap and utterly charming. So we got in.

Inside, it was red. Red carpet. Red booths. Red lights. The bartenders were icily condescending and possessed no body fat. I was thrilled, as the whole scene served as confirmation of what I had always suspected of Bostonian Cool. I ordered a vodka tonic. The surly young missy looked me over and smirked, "And is there any particular vodka you had in mind?"

"Uh, Absolut is fine."

"Absolut." She smiled as if to say, "How pedestrian."

At that point Diane was at my side. "What the hell kind of place is this? They don't got any kind of decent beer here." (It must be noted that Diane works for Tremont Ale, Elixir of the Gods, and is therefore allowed to be snobbish about draught beer.) We gloomily contemplated this as we stared at a giant wall display of prettily backlit vodka bottles.

"Diane?"

"Yuh?"

"I think this is some kinda vodka bar..."

Before she could answer, Stephanie appeared behind me, "Dude, Lees."

"Hey, Steph."

"Dude. I had to go to the back to pee, and I found it."

"It?"

"There is cheesiness to be had in the back."

I followed her and was amazed. For in the back there was an entire dance floor, flanked on both sides by vinyl loveseats populated by several dozen bored-looking young beauties. Terrible Eurohousetrancemusik boomed from a closed-off DJ booth. To the horror of the Bored Beauties, we started bouncing around the floor shrieking "Wooohoooo!"

I flopped on the step by the loveseat our ragtag group had claimed, where a bottle of champagne had magically appeared, and watched the carnage unfold. A dripping, panting Diane joined me yet again: "What the hell kinda place is this?!"

"Uh-oh. Whatsa matter now?"

"Those DJs don't take requests."

"Of course they don't. That's like a personal affront to them, a request."

"Huh. A personal affront." Diane regarded this for a second. "That's fuckin' stupid, Lees."

"Yeah, but it's not like they're wedding DJs, you know? They're like...like gods here. You don't ask a god to play 'Rock Lobster.'"

I entertained myself by watching these two suited-up German guys furtively dancing around the periphery of our group of drunk old punk rock chicks. They were totally not scoring. It was brilliant to watch.

Eventually, I realized that I had reached that state of being Almost Too Drunk, and bid my farewells to what was left of our group. Diane was lolling on the loveseat, picking damp feathers off her front. "Diane, I'm taking off."

"You gotta go, Lees? You gotta go?" She looked at me mournfully.

"Yeah, I'm kinda wasted."

"Me too." She brightened. "I'm gonna feel like shit tomorrow!"

I was amazed at how crowded the place had gotten as I attempted to worm my way out. One of the suited-up German guys grabbed my elbow: "Come dance vith me, strange girl. I see you dancing. You are strange, yes?"

"Yeah."

"You don't normally are here?"

"No. I gotta go now."

The bouncers unhooked the rope and I pushed past the line of hip-hugger-clad nymphettes and their cologne-soaked dates. I may have been imagining it in my intoxication, but I swore I heard one of them mutter, "How'd she get in?"

lisamcc at 23:49:51

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