The Grand Finale, or I'm Too Old for This Shit

And so it is that all good things must come to an end. This is the tone for this last piece of Bougie on a Budget. If you have a hard time with goodbyes, better do a Google search for something a little more your speed.

Ricky Diamond has left the building. He moved back to Gloucester, Massachusetts just 2 weeks ago. He told me the news a few weeks back, on a trip to get fried chicken from Church’s in Paramore, just like old times. The talk of the move was nestled somewhere between comments on how we missed the grits at Pom Pom’s Teahouse and Nancy Grace’s head exploding from the acquittal of Casey Anthony. I quickly segwayed the conversation to reliving the night a light bulb exploded inside of Church’s and sounded like a gunshot, and to our surprise nobody flinched.

I’m glad that Ricky went off in search to make a better life. Orlando couldn’t handle the kooky antics of this performer, and now that he and Danny have created Diamond Dolls he has some real potential. He just needs to find a more open audience and the right person to get their hands on the demo. Unlike so many other people who are not around these days, either by intense falling outs, mental illness, or simply losing touch, Ricky Diamond will always be more than a misunderstood artist with good intentions, one of the major contributors to my life here in Orlando, and a best friend named Paul.

And he will be back, so I won’t remorse too much here.

The following weekend after Paul’s departure, Collin and I actually made it out to Independent Bar downtown- the scene of so many memories and even a few of these posts. My childhood friend Courtney was celebrating her 25th birthday, and since I ended up blacked out during my own I will grace this blog with a recount of hers. I knew things would be different, since I rarely make it out here anymore, but I didn’t know how shell-shocked the whole night would make me. I was prepared to show my ID to some new kid working the door now that I had dropped my Regular status. The dancefloor wasn’t quite as filled as it used to be, and I chuckled as I told Collin that the soundtrack was comfortingly the same. But then I took a sip of the whiskey and cranberry I ordered at the bar and grimaced as a flavor that I predominantly remember in my vomit filled my mouth. Kids that looked at least 8 years younger bumped and shoved past me. I recognized the faces, but none of them recognized me. As I tried to manage another sip I thought, “I’m not drunk enough for this shit.”

We found Courtney and her friends that came with her from New Smyrna Beach by the front bar. It was endearing how overdressed they were in strapless dresses and longsleeve shirts amongst a sea of boys wearing girls’ jeans and ballet flats that have walked the streets too many nights. Courtney was ecstatic, and we eagerly bellied up to the bar for a few rounds of birthday shots. Then I saw Johnny, a face I had come to count on seeing wherever there was good music and ecstasy. We embraced in a full-force hug, and I immediately knew something was different: Johnny was sober. He looked great, perfectly coiffed as usual. He said he had graduated school and was moving to Brooklyn in a few weeks. He looked like he had never been happier.

A few minutes later, I ran into Marvin, a breakdancer that I became friends with when I started hanging out at parties like Crush and I Like it Raw before Fusian Sushi shut down. We chatted long enough for me to find out that he was doing great, and was moving in to his own place in a few weeks. He slipped off into the crowd the way he always did after just a few sentences; a lanky, nearly 7-foot-tall figure cloaked in black much like a shadow, and I rejoined my group out on the dancefloor.

The typical shenanigans ensued. Songs that we recognized came on and we’d stay on the floor. Songs that we were hearing for the first time came on and we weren’t feeling pushed us off it and up to the bar. A random kid kept on creeping up to either Courtney or myself- whomever was closer- and would try to make a pass despite seeing me holding Collin’s hand, Courtney dancing with the guy she has been seeing, and me flat out telling him that she and I were with someone and not interested. I even tried to tell him I was too old for him, since I spotted black X’s on his hands, but to no avail. Courtney’s date Cliff eventually went up to the kid, kissed him on the cheek, and said that was the most action he would be seeing all night.

At some point later on I headed to a bathroom I once had become far too familiar with. As I washed my hands, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. For once the person staring back was in focus. No makeup bleeding under my eyes, my hair still looking somewhat like it did when I left the house. My black tunic held to my more toned frame, and I sipped the gin and tonic I was partial to. I smiled, said, “I’m too old for this shit,” and walked out.

My friend Dave was on my way back to the dancefloor, his mass of curly blond hair pulled back into a tight bun high atop his head. Not too long after he and I became friends, he started working at IBar as a bouncer. The usual conversation of how we were doing commenced, and I found out he was working at the Y as a swim instructor for children on top of his night job, which was no surprise given his background as a youth camp counselor. Dave is one of those rare guys that you find in this world who doesn’t get his kicks from partying- he’s high on life and a night out dancing, he has a good outlook on life, and he genuinely enjoys giving back to the world. If you’re ever at IBar, find him and strike up a conversation.

I told him about my own few highlights, namely how I was giving up the condo downtown to move in with the boyfriend. His eyes widened and he smiled as he took in the seriousness of Collin and I’s relationship. I found myself rambling, “Remember that night you and I went out to Backbooth? My friend Megan came, and she brought him, and we all hung out? It was a Saturday night, and afterwards we went back to Megan’s after, and we thought we saw the ghost in the room next door, and Megan and Collin didn’t see it! Then you and I went back to my place and we stayed up till 4 or 5 in the morning chatting on my couch… Yeah… That was the first night I met him.” Dave smiled, gave me a hug, and said he had to make his rounds. I looked at my shuffling feet, smiling, and realized I was making the right move.

I did see Johnny again at one point. He and one of his hipster friends that I remember him paling around with were on the dancefloor. He sauntered over just as “Skeleton Boy” by Friendly Fires came on- the song that Paul and I danced to the first night we ran into each other at IBar. Every time I hear it, I think of him, me, and the sense that I finally had made a friend in Orlando. It wasn’t the last song I heard that night, but it will always stick with me the soundtrack of the beginning and now the end. Just listen to the lyrics. What a song to close with.


The end.

Date Night

I love my new job. Really, I do. Although I’m starting to find that, much like my monthly cycle, the stress builds up and comes in waves once a month. I’ve been walking on eggshells at work much like one would around their PMSing girlfriend. Quite frankly, I’m frazzled this week. I’m sipping a glass of wine at the Eden Bar, though I use the word ‘sipping’ loosely. More or less, I’m sloshing it past my tongue the second the glass hits my lips and hoping that the few patrons that have trickled in aren’t thinking that I’m really as unrefined as I look. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a date night with myself.

I shot a text to the boyfriend, telling him that we should grab dinner and a movie here one night. The outdoor Eden Bar has a great happy hour for being the sidekick to the Enzian Theater. Though they might be attached, their offerings of $2 Miller Light and $5 glasses of wine are too good to pass up before catching your swanky indie flick, which is precisely what brings me here. Tonight’s feature is Blue Valentine, a film that has gotten rave reviews by critics as well as my peers for really capturing the essence of a breakup. This is what brings me here alone.

As mentioned before, I haven’t spent much time to myself. Not that I mind the current state that I’m in- hell, if you would have told me three months ago that I would be blowing off late nights at concerts in lieu of early nights in snuggled up on the couch with a guy that digs me as much as I do him, I would have promptly laughed and called you a silly bitch. But with working, roller derby, and the boyfriend taking up the last of my time, there is barely a crumb of it left to take care of household duties and (the most important thing of them all) myself. This week has made it all too obvious.

To be honest, I don’t think I could have picked a better place or time. It was a pleasant surprise to know that I get a discounted ticket because of my new title at Full Sail. However, there are even more pressing perks. There is a soft, cool breeze pushing through the droopy clumps of Spanish moss, a fountain churns the gentle sound bubbling water to mix with the classic rock coming over the speakers. The service is friendly, the bar is slowly starting to fill, and the six o’clock hour could not be more perfect.

What’s even more enchanting is the fact that here I sit at an outdoor café table dreamily hitting the keys of a laptop- something that I don’t find myself doing too much anymore these days as well. I can’t blame a lack of inspiration. Rather, any time I find myself near a computer, a tablet of paper, or even eager to punch away at my iPhone screen, I’m preoccupied. I’m swept away by the next text message, the next project at work, the next alluring look in my boyfriend’s eyes. Usually I’m composed and planned out yet lately I’ve been flighty.

The most comforting part is that I’ve not been beating myself up over living in the moment just a little bit more.

And after all, I really shouldn’t have to.