Sing Along

You don't need to be in a break-up to think of someone you'd like to say over half of these lyrics to. I can name about half a dozen ;-)

Happy Friday! Let's sing along...

Little Ms. Popular

About three weeks ago was trying to find the time to write a posting on how I was starting to feel like one of those bad parents that you see in the movies. You know the ones that are always calling up the kid on their birthday (right when they are about to blow out the candles on their cake) and telling them, “Sorry honey. Mommy can’t make it to your birthday party because work/forgetfulness/drug addiction came up.” That was me. Except I was telling friends that I couldn’t make it to their event that they were promoting, their concert, or their poetry reading because I was tied up with something else.

I was always running late! Either I was jetting from one event to another, or being held up by a friend before I could even get out the door. All the while I would be scrambling to make it before the guest list cut off. However, it’s dreadfully tacky at the same time to be furiously texting your host as you stomp down Orange Ave. begging them to make sure you can still get in for free at 11:40p when the list stops at 11:30p. It’s also shameful to tell your host that you can’t make it at all since you missed the cut-off. I try to do both as little as possible.

Events aside, I feel as though I’ve also been the crutch for my friends as well. Maybe something is in the water here, but it seems as though everyone is going through some major issues, and they all seem to want to resolve them downtown. I’m pulled in a million directions via texts and Facebook status updates that I’ve been tagged in. I’ve looked at my notifications to see that apparently I’m slated to be at Independent Bar on a Tuesday night for Grits and Gravy, even though I have work the next morning and Diana Ross makes me want to slit my wrists. As much as I’d like to say no thanks, it’s a little hard to do so when you’ve got five people who have already started posting comments that they can’t wait to see you out… Even though I just saw many of them the night before, and the night before that one, and have already had two conversations via text with them that same day. And then there is my favorite line: “It’s not like you have to drive 45 minutes home anymore. You live downtown now!”

I’ve never been the ‘popular’ girl my entire life. It’s quite flattering to me that someone thinks that my presence will make or break their night out on the town. It’s fun to walk up to a group of people and hear one of them squeal, “Bougie’s here!” But here is the true reason why it’s all irritating me so: Surprise, surprise- I’m going through a lot, too. I’m trying to tackle issues that come with being an adult- bills, work, and attempting something called ‘dating’ but I have long since given up on that. I live in a shell of an apartment that I’ve barely felt connected to since I moved in nearly two months ago, because guess what? I’m never here. When I’m out, I’m not allowed to have feelings either. I’m not allowed to just sit back and take in the scenery with a water in my hand. Someone is always coming up to me shoving a drink to my lips, or asking me why I look melancholy. Yet before I can answer, I’m being told that I’m not allowed to be- not tonight, because Bougie is needed.

All I’ve wanted to do for the last few weeks is go home (wherever that is), throw on my NOFX t-shirt and a pair of boxers, crank the Greeley Estates on my iPod and relax on the couch after I organize more of the things I need to unpack around the apartment. I just want to be Heather.

Tonight I hit up Shari’s sushi happy hour (try saying that one five times fast) in Thornton Park with my good friend Dru. Over $3.75 cocktails and sushi rolls, I described how two weekends ago I lost my iPhone at Back Booth. I’ve broken down into tears over it several times since then, as well as nearly pulling a Naomi Campbell by smashing my previous BlackBerry into a million pieces because it won’t receive text messages or show me calls I’ve missed. Although my perfectionism is numero uno on the list of why I’m so distraught over losing my phone (I’ve never lost a phone- ever- let alone anything worth more than a few dollars) , the second reason I’ve been so torn up is because I feel completely disconnected from the world. When I’m bored at work, I can’t just shoot a text to my friend Lauren and have some of her wit hold me over for a few more hours. I can’t catch up with people via Facebook chat while I’m walking down Central Boulevard. I can’t watch a movie and IMDB it when I have an inquiry.

My friends have treaded lightly around this topic with me, but all have stated clearly that this is a good thing for me. They, as well as any guy that I’ve attempted to have a relationship with in the last 2 years, will say that I was always on my phone. Always. By now I’ve finally gotten over most of the anxiety associated with me losing it, and I’m agreeing and seeing this as one of those funny coincidences that makes you scratch your head and trust that things really do happen for a reason. Its funny how when you're least connected to everyone around you, it makes shutting the world down so much easier. Fancy that.

So here I sit, wearing my Devil Wears Prada t-shirt and A Day to Remember on the iPod, typing away from my favorite spot on the couch. I feel like I have finally come back to my center. Heather finally feels at home.

Oh, and my closet looks fabulous now that it’s not filled with random bags.

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I think we've all felt this way about Orlando at one point...

Ricky Diamond got me listening to this song last night... And yes, I spent the better part of my morning dancing in my underwear while getting ready for work to it.

Name That Tune: Kareoke

I knew it was a matter of time before I wound up in a lone dive bar in Orlando.

The one that took my Orlando Dive Bar Virginity just so happened to be (in what felt like) a remote part of Winter Park, and is appropriately named Big Daddy’s. Yes, I am aware of the oxymoron that I’ve just presented you with: there is, in fact, a dive bar in Winter Park. But it isn’t as divey as one might imagine. Rather, it is Winter Park Divey, meaning you can lean up against the bar without feeling like you’re going to catch shingles. See also Burton’s, which is how Thornton Park does a dive bar.

Tonight’s cast of characters is a motley crew indeed. We have my beloved songbird Jamesson, one of his roommates Chaz, and our token club promoter friend of the night Myk. Then there is Jamesson’s karaoke queen friend (whose name has slipped my memory- blame it on the cigarette smoke constricting oxygen to my brain). I’ve brought my pal and favorite Stardust bartender Mike to entertain me while I furiously bouncing back and forth between texting and jotting down broken bits of conversation to later use as fodder in these blog postings.

Apparently this is the place to be with this group. One can let down their hair, fill it with bar stench, and belt out the classics. I still have yet to get on a stage armed with a microphone in one hand and a stiff cocktail in the other, and as anticipated I opt to just sit on the edge of my seat and think of all of the great songs I could possibly lose my dignity to. The entire bar had been singing country standards that we’ve all either grown up listening or singing along at the bar to. Growing up with parents who immersed me in redneck culture (although it obviously didn’t stick), I knew many Garth Brooks songs- even if the lyrics were a little fuzzy. Thanks to karaoke, I finally understood what the hell was going down in the song “Papa Loved Mama”.

“So you’re telling me that he drove the truck into the f*cking motel?? And he killed the bitch?? I wouldn’t wanna be a trucker’s wife. He’d kill me for sure...And for the record, country music is not wholesome! Its all about violence and sex! The music I listen to is more wholesome, and you can’t even understand the lyrics!”

At this point Chaz was climbing the stage to do our group’s first number (and to break the country cycle)- “We Are All On Drugs” by Weezer. As he’s doing this, Jamesson informs me that he and I will, in fact, be hitting the stage tonight. The song of choice? A personal favorite- and one that I would prefer to lose my V-Card to- “Ice Ice Baby”.

For the win!

While I anxiously wait for our names to be called, Jamesson and I sit back and watch everyone else. There was a trio doing a gospel song, some hillbilly duo (including a guy that was transformed to ‘sexy and mysterious’ by donning a pair of Wayfarers) that does “Jenny (867-5309)”, and another Asian fellow that is so good that he does not even need the words on the screen. He proves this by the monitor being a blank blue and he still hits every word with the precision of a Chuck Norris round house kick to the face.

The real treat of the evening, however, was Myk. Dressed as a virtual clone of Elvis Costello, he boldly strutted the stage and in a throaty tone recited Genuine’s masterpiece “Pony”. There more than a few shifts of the eyes towards the persons sitting next to them, but I think that the crowd overall enjoyed it.

Of course there were some ‘real treats’ of the evening, but who are we to judge?? One guy was up there, giving it about 53%, and it took me a while to figure out what he was signing.

Chaz: What is this song??
Me: ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’
Chaz: What?? Really??
Me: Yeah!
Chaz: Wow… That’s uncanny. I’m amazed that it’s the same song! Good job!
Me: Its like we’re playing a hip new drinking game… Name that tune!

…And what of me? Where is the part where I say that Jamesson and I tore up the song, as well as my karaoke V-Card? Sadly, that didn’t happen. Being of the 9-5 Crowd, I had to leave shortly after midnight. They were nowhere near pulling our names out of the basket filled with paper slips and reluctantly I bid my partner in singing crimes adieu. I walked out of the bar with my head held high, and virginity and dignity both intact.

Downtown University

I’m still in utter shock that its late May, and I’m able to sit here out on the balcony of my new place and enjoy the sounds of the city and the breeze that I’m sure is coming off of the cars whizzing by on I4. Downtown has been good to me these past 3 weeks I’ve been living here! Not only is it a 5-minute drive to work now, but I can have Pom Poms whenever I’d like! Their grits have finally become a staple in my diet, and not just at 3:30a after Jamesson and I shut down Midnight Mass at Backbooth. I can proudly say that I’ve taken a half a dozen Pom Poms virginities in the past 2 months. And I’d better stop thinking about it because I’m starting to crave a Fu Manchu like its nobody’s business.

The other great thing about living in the downtown area is that, oddly enough, it feels very familiar to me. My friend Elisa asked me the other day if I ever still thought about our times back at Stetson University, and the good ol’ days living in Conrad Hall. How could I not? The new condo reminds me of just that- dorm living. I have some person that lives above me that stomps around at all hours of the day. I see the girls walking out to their cars wearing clothes from the night before and their heels in their hands. We even have the same washers and dryers in the community laundry rooms! But its even more than the walks of shame and the slightly stale air that fills the under-ventilated corridors of the building. There is a pretty strong sense of community here. Not that I was ridiculously cool in college (not that I am ridiculously cool now, just sayin’), but it was pretty hard to go anywhere on campus or in the downtown DeLand area in general without running in to someone that you knew. By the time sophomore year came around, my parents had given up trying to have a conversation with me on my way to class because every 3 seconds in to a new sentence I was being greeted by a fellow co-ed. Even before I moved downtown, I already had a decent network of people in this area. Now when my friends ask me for a place to grab a bite to eat or a drink, I generally start out the reply with, “Well, I know one of the (servers/bartenders/barbacks/owners) of…”

The high rises are the dorms of downtown. You hear someone say that they live in the Paramount, View, Solaire, or Waverly and you instantly know that they must be an upperclassman or a very lucky freshman who’s dad was able to pull a few strings with Housing. You ask your friend if they lofted their bed and put the desk under it, or about the odd smells, when they tell you they live in the St. Regis. I even caught myself responding to my friends with, “I have a single,” when they asked if I had a roommate or not.

And what is the full college experience without the fraternities and sororities? The bars themselves do a pretty damn good job at filling that void. I hear girls walking by on the street saying in their bubble gum voices, “I’m a Bliss!” Wall Street is a random mixture of everyone, because they carpet bid. And, of course, the Animal House of Downtown Orlando: BBQ Bar, for sure, is the equivalent. But picking out which bar you’re going to rush is a pretty big decision- those letters are going to follow you and shape your social habits for the next few years until you move on to the next phase of your life. Choose wisely, and enjoy the next four years here (or however long it takes you to graduate).

Whorelando

I love my good friends to pieces. Sometimes that means that we do things that we ordinarily wouldn’t do. Some would call this peer pressure.

I knew inevitably there would be the day where I would have to trek down Wall Street with Lauren and Rachel in order to keep friendship alive. After all, Lauren went to Independent Bar with me once, which led to a dance floor clothes swap between me and a friend (no, he is not missing teeth- he had something in his mouth... I don't remember what though), driving to find me an IHOP so I could eat pancakes in a drunken stupor but only making it to Steak N Shake, and me leading Lauren to the Winter Park Chamber of Commerce instead of my apartment… Which is by UCF. To this day, if I dare mutter the words, “Just trust me, I’ve got this,” I think Lauren will rip out my vocal chords. There are many more details to this story but that, children, is for another time.

Wall Street can be summed up in the repetitious “Ass and Titties” that I hear blasting over and over on the speakers. With jams like these, how can one not get laid in a place like this? No wonder so many people flock. Its the Orange Blossom Trail of Downtown Orlando. Demographically speaking, I would fit in here with the majority of post-college professionals. But my nights out don’t revolve around reliving Spring Break 2002, so I feel a little out of place as I try to order a drink. I see a bachelorette party scamper past, followed by a smaller group of guys. Its something that I notice here: larger groups of girls, and guys with a few wingmen at their side. After all, when going for a pack of margarita-filled corporate-world women its best to hunt like a lion.

I’m feeling spunky in my fresh threads from Dechoes that I bought earlier: a Ramones t-shirt that I got giddy over because in all of my years of loving punk I had somehow managed to never own a Ramones t-shirt. Pair it up with the skinny jeans and Converses I wore to work, and it’s a fun way to spice things up amongst a crowd of aging frat and sorority members that call Wall St home. My friend Kevin tells me he’s sure that the shirt will get me lots of ass, but I laugh it off. And just when I think I have thwarted the boys from lion-hunting me from my pack of ladies, I feel a hand on my shoulder and see Lauren’s Look of Uh-Oh.

Enter Mucho. Mucho is a boy I had a very brief fling with. He happens to work at Mucho, so for anonymity’s sake we shall call him as such. I try to keep my love life (or lack thereof) out of this site… But since we are talking about bars that will get you laid, it seems only fitting. Of course Mucho and I cover all of the topics: How Have You Been, I Haven’t Seen You Around, and of course Do You Still Have My Number. We talk for a few more minutes after making sure we have a way to contact each other, and he says he’s heading over to Finnhenry’s. He says to call him later, with the cute twinkle in his eye that a few months prior made me desperately want to hand over my panties.

I feel like I get an A+ in Running into an Ex Fling 101, but when I look at my phone I realize that I must have slept through Handling Texts from Unknown Numbers Workshop. I see the number and the little “Hey :-)” that goes along with it… And I have a feeling this is from someone that I used to know and deleted their number for very good reasons. I send the obligatory Sorry-New-Phone-Who-Is-This text and wait for a reply. Its Jason. And since he has no roots here in Orlando, so I have no other way to describe him, he shall remain as such. And his number did get deleted from my phone because when you mix alcohol with feelings stemming from a guy falling off the face of the Earth after you had some great times together, the outcome is generally disappointing. He’s hanging out with friends. I say I am too. He doesn’t disclose where. I do. He says that he doesn’t know how long its been since he’s been there, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Lauren diverts my attention from my text messages and we belly up to the bar for a second round, which takes about 5 tries since we find a bar, can’t get in, find a bar, can’t get served in a timely fashion, etc. Some nice boys make room for us at The Other Bar, and this naturally leads to conversation. But I soon realize that these are wingmen. And they, with help from a wingwoman, are introducing me to the bachelor in question. He likes my Ramones shirt. He looks like an accountant type and says he’s from Winter Park, which means I don’t see him as a threat when he follows the R-A-M-O-N-E-S across my clavicle with his finger. He is fairly tipsy, says he has a crush on me, and asks what bar I’ll be at later. I’m sure I won’t run into him again, and I feel a tinge of sadness as Lauren takes my hand.

Lauren leads me away back to the crowd that we left behind, and as we find Rachel and her 2 friends from Rollins I hear “Shake That Ass” by 2 Live Crew coming from Slingapours. Instantly, memories of Fall Semester 2005 overcome me and I’m hunting for a stage to dance on. Slingapours does not disappoint. And after I tell my story of how I got 2nd place in an ass-shaking competition at Mako’s back in the day, I feel a wave of somber wash over me as I start counting how many years ago that was. Before I get too worked up over how I’m not a co-ed anymore and how I’ve packed on about 30 pounds since then, Rachel saves the day and comes over with several Jager Bombs- the perfect drink, since we’re surrounded by men not too unlike those found in My New Haircut.

We still have an hour or so to kill, so we spend our time dancing to more sex-driven top 40 rap and finding bathrooms. I’m finally to the point where Lauren has since stopped questioning me if I’m having a good time, and I close out my bar tab to keep me from drinking anything else before I have to take the wheel. The texts from Jason have longer and longer pauses between them until they stop coming all together. I send out a friendly ‘How’s Finnhenry’s?’ text to Mucho, but I don’t really care when I don’t hear back from him and I don’t beat myself up over the fact that I shouldn’t have texted him to begin with. As the high of Wall St wears off, I feel sobriety- and myself- come back.

While walking Lauren to the bathroom, I see a woman stumble out, dressed to get laid with her short dress and heels. I see she brought a friend with her from the bathroom- a 3-square trail of toilet paper attached to her additional 4 inches. I smile to myself and let her keep walking.