PlatKat.com

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

I've been somewhat out of commission for the past week because Gus, my wonderful boyfriend who knows everything, was in town. He got a flight-and-hotel deal from site59, which is the best travel site EVAR. We stayed at the Crowne Plaza in downtown San Jose and consequently spent most evenings in the area.

We spent most of Saturday night at The Vault, your standard-issue downtown nightclub featuring commercial hip-hop, arrogant bartenders, and a predominantly young crowd. Hearing rumors of house music, we had emerged from the Fairmont hotel bar having drank enough for us not to be choosy. Once we arrived at The Vault, Gus and I got drinks, parked ourselves upstairs, and waited for hijinx to ensue. (Yes, we waited for them. We weren't that drunk!)

When I went downstairs to get another round, some guy started talking to me and offered me a cigarette. I bought two drinks ("One for my boyfriend," I explained) and went outside. He told me all about how he met some girl on a party line and he took her to a movie and it was bullshit because she wasn't even cute and she brought a girlfriend so she might be a lesbian. And I was like, "Party lines still exist?!"

I went on to talk about how much I hate the phone, love the internet, and used to meet people on the internet until I got a job and met my boyfriend who is currently upstairs waiting for his drink.

"Hey! Wanna meet my boyfriend? Sure you do! He's great!" I headed inside and he said he'd meet me upstairs. He came up shortly after, met my boyfriend, and did some other uninteresting stuff I can't remember.

I think he asked for my phone number while we were still outside and I gave it to him because I'm a flaming moron. I didn't have a fake number, as there has never been a point in my life when I was so inundated with requests for my digits that I felt it necessary to make some up. In Chicago, I would sing, "Five eight eight, two three hundred... Em-piiiiiire!" (scroll down) and that would be my humorous way of saying, "Don't call my house, my parents are crazy, and you're not worth the trouble."

Anyway, I gave this guy my real number and he called it last night at 8pm while I was playing cards. When he called, he didn't even say his name. He just kinda started talking like I should remember that I met him at a club three days ago and was anxiously awaiting his call.

To his credit, at least he didn't do the whole, "Guess who this is. Nope! Guess again. Nope..." I don't know who does that anymore, but the last time someone did it to me, I belched really loud and hung up the damn phone.

Cell reception wasn't great, so in between "what?" and "say that again," the only useful information I received from that call was that the movie, 40-year-old Virgin, is good and I would like it.

Unfortunately, I hate the theater and refuse to go unless it's an independent film or the theater's superior screen and sound will greatly enhance my viewing experience. In all other cases, I avoid movie theaters like the plague.

Actually, that's a lie. This isn't the 1300s, so I don't avoid the plague. But if there were a plague to avoid, everyone infected with it should go to the movies 'cause I won't be there.

Anyway, we ran out of talking points fast, so the call lasted three minutes and eight seconds. I remember this exactly because I think T-Mobile rounds up to the minute for each call instead of totalling minutes and seconds every month. And he called before nine, which means I used four "whenever" minutes. It's really sad that I'm being stingy about my minutes when I have 600 per month and, since I hate the phone, don't use nearly that many. Maybe I'm more upset that I'll never get those minutes of my life back.

posted by platkat @ 12:43 PM