Smash Man, and Revelations. Maybe.

So, being the summer, there are all of these interesting things going on everywhere. None of them are happening to me, but it's like I'm the snarky friend in about seven romantic comedies right now.

Um, and on Saturday we went to Mother's.

Mother's is...well...it's like where desperate twenty and thirty-somethings with a hard-on for shame and sheepery go to cut loose. Walking into Mother's on a Saturday night is an act of compunction. You can smell the sadness, the pathetic lust. Mother's is a dance club for people who shamefully and openly emulate a Cool crowd, people who follow trends blindly, people who squeeze into shirts and skirts so unfortunately that I feel sincere discomfort just glancing at them, and automatically adjust myself.

Mother's on the weekend is where guys with fake tans slime into unbuttoned-at-the-top collared shirts, clap on a gold chain, and troll for sloppy Bachelorette parties and girls with low self-confidence and say insincere, douchebag things to get those lonely girls to feel special, like "you have no idea how sexy you are."

By the way, that's Guyspeak for "Your lack of self-confidence is painfully obvious. This is like throwing a dog a bone, if you were a dog and bones were generic compliments. Or my penis. I am such a PUA."


But despite all that business like three, four years ago we used to go to Mother's every Thursday, when it was empty and they had Live Band Karaoke.

We had theme nights. We were friends with the staff, the bands, the owner. We were retarded. We each individually probably spent over $300 a week on fucking alcohol. I don't know if that's a lot to you, but it's a fucking lot to me. I don't even know how I did that shit.

Six small groups of friends melted together to form one supergroup. We called ourselves The Whores. I've mentioned the story before. I even used this picture, since it's the only one I've got with all the female Whores in it, but basically after one particularly rowdy night, some douchebag put up a post on Craigslist about us, "the whores last night at Mothers" who were a disgrace to women everywhere, far too brazen and reckless to mingle in regular society.

My guess is this guy hit on one of us, got totally shot down, and lashed out in shame. I love how guys do that, with their widdle biddy egos.



Surprisingly, he seemed to leave out the fact that it wasn't just a group of girls. There were plenty of male whores, too.

One such male whore was our dear friend, Lewis. That's him, right there, from our Tarantino Night.

Three years ago on July 8, Lewis died. It was kind of unexpected. He was born with a heart defect. He had regular surgeries to keep shit pumping, but it just kind of...stopped.

Schmee, M.E., and Adam were all with him the night before his death, hanging out at his uncle's restaurant and getting good and drunk.

Adam stopped drinking for three years. He said his last drink was with Lewis, and he wanted to keep it that way for awhile.

Lewis was well-loved. I didn't even get along with him all the time, but I miss him. A lot. We used to say we would get drunk and smash things. We were all about smashing. I don't know why.

His death kind of shook all of us out of whatever world we were fucking splashing through, one where we were mighty and bulletproof and always, always, always drunk.

We stopped hanging out as much after that, planned fewer theme nights, going to Mother's less and less. Lewis was really more into Mother's than we were, I think.

But anyway, after three years, a bunch of us hung out on Saturday. Some of us haven't been to Mother's in well over a year. But Adam broke up with his girlfriend and decided he needed a fucking Jager bomb. The only logical thing to do was gather the troops and head back to Mother's, and at midnight Adam worked his way backwards from the last drinks he shared with Lewis. A shot of Patron, a pint of Jager and red bull. Rum and coke.

After his first silvery shot, he made a face. I'd never seen Adam make a face after a shot before. Then again, that was three years ago.

He wriggles. "Dude, you know what tastes fucking disgusting?"

"Hmmm?"

"Tequila."

I feign shock. "Bitch, that's Patron. Be glad your last shot wasn't fucking Sauza."

"Ugggghhhh...where's my Jager?" He takes a sip, and gazes lovingly down at the glass. "Oh, how could I imagine being with any woman other than this bombshell?"

"You were totally planning on saying that."

"Yes I was."

"That's the Adam I know and love."

Anyway, so we went back to Mother's. It took us awhile to get used to the people there, and their minds, and at first I felt sorry for them, and then I felt like an asshole. And then I was glad for us. So out of place there.

We laughed at them. Yeah, it was mean-spirited. But some people just look so ridiculous. Were we like that three, four years ago? No way. Impossible. We were powerful and adored and hated, and people wanted to be us. People knew who we were, they talked about us behind our backs.

We weren't frantic for attention. Not like them. We didn't smell like desperation, we didn't scramble to be noticed, to be loved.

Right?

...