Truesday: Semantics In A Bottle

The previous night started well enough. But somehow, the birthday party for a friend’s one-year-old devolved into drinking and cards. I don’t honestly know or understand how these things happen. Sometimes I feel like I’m on bender rails. I am but a mere rider of the Space Coaster. I cannot control its fabulous rainbow exhaust.

Needless to say, it was the first one-year-old’s birthday party that I’ve ever left drunk. It was a pretty solid drunk too. Produced by various combinations of Red Bull, Captain Morgan’s, gin, vodka, beer, and tonic. I don’t remember the recipes. It matters not. Best toddler birthday party EVER.

The night ended at everyone’s favorite watering hole: Foundation. I hadn’t been there in quite a while, and I’d pleasantly forgotten how almost everyone in that piece appears to be saying to themselves “you know what? The ONLY person fine enough here to go home with me tonight is ME. Dear lord, thank you for making me the best.” I did, however, enjoy the probably-coked-up and drunken antics of two yam-colored, chest-shaven bro-hams in the bathroom during my ten-minute wait to take a piss. After a somewhat subtle dance involving high-fives, light flexing, and lots of “FUCK YEAH BRO!”, they ridiculed one-another for not watching enough UFC on pay-per-view, and then decided that it would be fun to throw all the paper towels over the shortened wall that separates the men’s and women’s restrooms, onto unsuspecting lady tinklers on the other side.

And those dudes honestly expected to get laid that night… I hope they were gentle with each other.

I was not previously aware that one can get bottle service at Foundation. For most Austinites, bottle service is an urban myth. It’s a silly service offered at posh dickhead clubs or strip joints. Europeans and tourist towns. But honestly, I LOVE the idea of bottle service. As dangerous as it sounds, it’s cheaper for me in the long run.

Bottle service: usually you have to call ahead and reserve a table at the chosen venue, along with promising to buy a bottle of booze for whatever price they charge per unit. It’s different from market to market. A 750 ml bottle of Absolut may go for $100 in Houston, $225 in Las Vegas, and $400 in New York. It’s a willy-nilly pricing scheme, but it trues-up to whatever drink prices are in that area. You’ll get a bucket of ice, glasses, and a supply of mixers. When you arrive at the club, you are typically shuffled through the gawking, Plebian masses to your reserved table, where, because you have no real sense of proper booze-to-mixer ratios, you will likely get so fucked-up that you make out with someone you’re related to. You might even sex up an inanimate object or four.

This is the beauty of bottle service.

At Foundation, a friend of mine requested such bottle service. Even though there’s no VIP area. The service is not on any menu, anywhere. And it was almost 1am. I had to be up the following morning at 8am to take my girlfriend, who was at home diligently packing for her trip, to the airport. Plus I had the soccer game. On top of the fact that I was wearing the same clothes that I wore to the birthday party of a one-year-old, and the bouncer barely allowed me into the joint as it was.

So there we were, sitting amongst the power-lifting, “now on stage two!” dancing crowd of Foundation, with a full bottle of vodka and mixers, me wearing a t-shirt and stained pants that were ripped at the cuffs, drunk, one hour until the place kicked us out, with bewildered onlookers who were obviously wondering whether or not we just stole that bottle from behind the bar. My friends who ordered the bottle are not from here, and they obviously didn’t realize how indifferent the majority of Austin is to this variety of plumage ruffling. Nearby women simply stared with curiosity, peering over as we repeatedly hit that bottle, unmoved by our imprudent display of either wealth, or alcoholism. We drank pretty much alone, which is totally cool with me, but this is far from the real purpose of bottle service.

It’s supposed to be the flame which attracts chicken-headed, large-breasted, gold-diggin’ type moths. Or so the lore has us believe. But, for a myriad of reasons, it was just us dudes trying to kill a whole bottle of vodka in an hour. Boo-hoo.

After 45 minutes and 3 or 4 disturbingly stiff drinks, I rescinded my participation in the bottle sacrifice and called my girlfriend to come and retrieve my inebriated hulk of being. She came, kindly picked me up, and after starting a really pointless argument that involved the method for purchase of a goddamn taquito, I passed out somewhere north of 3am. I probably dreamt of my girlfriend repeatedly stabbing me with taquitos. I would have deserved it.

The next morning’s drive to the airport was most miserable, and the shreds of sleep that I garnered upon my return home were fevered and plagued by dehydration cramps, which are most awesome and I totally recommend them to you and your whole family.

Later that afternoon, I made my hobbling way to the field of play. Our soccer game.

I don’t remember a whole lot from the game itself, as I was floating through the final stages of an IQ-halving hang over, but I do remember that when we scored our lone, game winning point, I was far-far-far away from that action. On the opposite end of the field. Resting on my knees, noting that my sweat smelled distinctly of Red Bull and spiced rum.

Wondering how a one-year-old would misinterpret the phrase “bottle service”.