The Mad Poller What Polls at Midnight (maeincarnate) wrote,
The Mad Poller What Polls at Midnight

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Black Cat, Black Cat! Little change for the homeless, Black Cat!

Tonight I went to Mousetrap, the monthlyish Britpop night at the Black Cat with htothem, bruthae, vivisectandrew, and smoothannah. After having spent the entire day in the house, never even venturing outside, I was not feeling the top of my game. I was feeling detached and kind of sedated until HM appeared with a Blow Pop (they had candy strewn about the tables for some reason) and she and Susannah and I pretended to be ravers and love each other because of the lollipops.

From that point on, Susannah and I were dissecting the clothing choices of everyone who walked by and then I introduced her to the “That’s Your Boyfriend” game, the basic premise of which is to choose an undesirable from the crowd and announce to the other player, “That’s Your Boyfriend.” It’s a variation on “That’s Your Dad” usually played with older men, and “That’s You” a game most oven played while watching television (which really only gets started when the players are flipping channels and happen to pass Animal Planet. “See that warthog? That’s you.”). Yes, I know, we’re going to hell for playing it, but it happened anyway. And dammit, it was fun.

After Andy and Susannah left, HM and I began a rousing game of “That’s Your Boyfriend” that lasted us the rest of the night. At one point, HM abandoned the game to dance to a song (I, of course, did not dance) and one of her boyfriends came up and started dancing behind her. She, a quite skilled an accomplished dancer, looked good as usual. He looked a little awkward at first. Then he started kinda fake-freaking her from behind. Then he walked back and forth in front of her bobbing his head. Then he did the monkey. Then the running-man. She's still managing to half-dance between attempts to follow this guys' lead and doubling over in laughter. Meanwhile, I'm laughing so hard that streams of black eyeliner are dripping down the side of my face. The guy takes a bit of a bow and rejoins his friends, seated about ten feet behind us. I'm still laughing. Ian's still laughing. HM's still laughing. My hand is now covered in black smears from trying to keep my makeup under control. Helen has decided that further dancing to that song is useless. I now have to go to the bar and get a napkin to repair my face. Giggling the whole way there, I waited at the bar for the bartender to come so I can ask him for the napkin. While waiting and still laughing, I meet the eyes of a guy sitting at the bar. He smirks disgustedly, shakes his head and crushes out his cigarette. Ahh, smug Britpop fans.

Sadly, Mousetrap tends to draw a semi attractive crowd, so we ended up doubling up on contestants and started to play “That’s Your Girlfriend” with Ian. We exhausted our resources right around when it was time to leave. We collected our jackets from where we had stowed them and found a veritable treasure trove of candy on the more obscure tables, which we loaded our pockets with for the walk back.

Laughing our way out the door, we passed a group of people a few blocks down the street. It was a mixed group of guys and girls, with one of the girls begging a guy to “show me the bagel!” and him yelling back, “shut up! Shut up!”

Helen chimes in, “yeah, shut up!” and the other people laugh. So I say, “but I wanted to see the bagel!” More laughs. The three of us keep walking while the other group keeps bickering, but the guy who was commanding the girl to shut up calls after us and I turn around to see him lift his chin, widen his eyes, point to his crotch and ask, “Orgy?”

I thanked him for his kind offer and declined. We walked on and they stood there still, they guy saying to another person, “hey...they just said we’re unattractive...”

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