The Happy Hour from hell...

Yesterday was a magnificent day. Not a cloud in the sky. The white hot rays of a beaming sun effortlessly penetrated the earth’s atmosphere, causing the temperature to climb to an unseasonably mild 85 degrees.

As my 14^th annual, 2011 “Spring Campaign” has commenced, I could not in good conscience allow such a gorgeous evening to go to waste.  I decided to head down to a popular watering hole for an evening of carousal & propositioning.

I felt good. Really good.

My hair was cooperating.

After 2 years of failing, I had finally solved the puzzle of how to maximize the potential of a particularly nice Ralph Lauren shirt. (You know the feeling, when you buy something nice, but it’s just not totally working for you the way you envisioned it would have, and then something clicks, and in an instant, it does.)

My vehicle was freshly washed & waxed & vacuumed; windows down, roof open…

 Surely this delightful evening was destined to yield exceedingly positive results.

I scooped up my boy and we headed down to rooftop bar in the popular Washington DC U Street District…

                                                                                                                                                        

Black culture has been getting ripped off since the days of Elvis Pressley. Don’t get me started on those kids from the Jersey Shore.  Every other word out of their mouths is black-derived slang. And Charlie Sheen’s celebrity propelled to astronomical new heights when he thrust the very commonly used “winning” into mainstream America. Even Justin Timberlake was effectively able to garner some measure of inauthentic street cred through the usage of street vernacular. That is before he so poignantly wept like Jesus on national television while being “punked” by Ashton Kutcher.

                                                                                                                                                                   

 I say that to say that the entire world borrows from Black Culture. I am certainly proud of who I am, and I encourage you to be proud of who you are too. But perhaps some of us are a bit too proud. These people literally wear their pride on their sleeves, (and every part of their person) in the form of Afrocentrism.

Seriously, why are you wearing a full length Kente Cloth robe (Dashiki) with a matching head-dress to Happy hour in 2011?

And I’m not one of those shallow people who feels like everything in your closet has to be designer, or even name- brand for that matter, but…

If your handbag is manufactured from cloth or beads, or is a reusable grocery sack, then it’s safe to say you’ve taken this whole “earthy” movement a bit too seriously.  

Everywhere I looked, fashion faux pas' of the most egregious nature; bald-headed women, female (dread) locks, open-toe-sandals, Africa-shaped pendants attached to necklaces made of string.

So there I stood, visibly mortified. Apparently this unexpected shell-shocking had unwittingly caused me to slip into deep trance-like state. My friend attentively made an attempt to reel me back into reality as he tapped me on the shoulder and said “are you okay?”

I replied “yes”.

But that was a lie. I was not okay.

How could I be okay? I had somehow entered some alternate reality, as if the door to the bar was some sort of time portal that had forcibly transported me into an ancient African Kingdom.  

Then, in this state of Purgatory, I saw a vision. It was my freshman year Statistics Professor, Dr. Aiello. His voice whispered softly(probably from the grave as Dr. Aiello had to be at least 90 years old back in ’96)

VISION: “Remember what I taught you Grasshopper; the law of averages, the Bell curve. Statistical probability all but guarantees us that eventually a normal woman will walk through that door.”

I smiled and responded to the vision of my likely-deceased mentor.

ME: “Will she have a perm, and a pair of high-heeled shoes?”

VISION: “No perm. Will you settle for a weave?”

ME: “Yes I would. At this point I’d settle for a wig. Maybe it’d help cover up some of these bald-headed-hoes.”

VISION: “Well then a wig you shall receive.”

Me: “And what about the high heeled shoes?”

VISION: “Red-bottoms”  

 ME: “You mean…”

 VISION: “Yes, that’s right, “Louboutins”

ME: “And her credit rating?”

VISION: “Shot to hell”

ME: “Well that’s fine because I’m pretty sure that’s where I’m going. BTW is that where you are Professor?”

But the vision was gone.

Nonetheless I was overcome with a feeling of relief.  I’m not entirely sure if my relief was a direct result of the vision, or if it had more to do with the 3 vodka on the rocks I had imbibed. After all, I rarely experience hallucinations of dead people whispering to me about mathematical probabilities & women’s shoes in my ear when I’m sober.

Anyway, I scanned the room again. Still nothing.

I needed an outlet… This time hopefully an actual living breathing human being. Unfortunately my friend, with whom I came, becomes sort of a "Chatty Cathy" when he has a couple of drinks. He was now engaged in a conversation with his old college roommate whom he had not seen in years.  With his garrulous tendencies, that conversation could quite possibly still be going on as you read this blog… So I resorted to Twitter.

In a moment’s notice I was tweeting away. Paul Revere and his frantic cries of “the British are coming” had nothing on me…I began tweeting incessantly. I saw it as my manly duty to forewarn the good people of twitter that with gas prices approaching near-record highs, they should probably consider staying put where they were.

A feeling of satisfaction came over me as I felt as though my tweets had sure averted some unsuspecting soul of the regrettable inevitability that would surely overwhelm their spirit had they opted to join us at the bar.

I looked at my watch and realized two hours had passed. I don’t think I had said more than 10 words to anyone besides the ghost of Dr. Aiello.  I began to sober up. So I ordered a beer in hopes of seeking more guidance from my former Statistics professor… But nothing... I turned around and saw a gentleman in the corner seemingly talking to himself. I lip-read him mouth the words “statistical probability” and knew that Professor Aiello had moved on from me, as he apparently had other dejected barflies to assist.

At that point, all hope was lost. My dream of a productive evening had been deferred & effectively dried up like a raisin in the sun.

As I exited the bar I was immediately transported back from the ancient African kingdom parallel universe, to the contemporary, concrete cement of Washington DC. I trotted across the street to Taco Hell and ordered two tacos; Lettuce. Tomato. Cheese. Sour cream. Possum meat. Hold the Possum dung.

I hopped in my car, and flipped on the radio. The 1980s hit song “Africa” by Toto was playing. I was overwhelmed with a feeling of deja vu as I sang the lyrics; “I bless the rains down in Affffffricaaaaa!”, as I sped off into the dark night, clumsily spilling Taco Hell Possum meat all over my lap. I didn’t even care. I just had to get out of there, fast!

“For some reason I can’t explain, I know Saint Peter will call my name.”