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And This Is Only Half The Story
I just tried to explain Bjork to our nighttime country DJ. I didn't get very far.

Friday night isn't even worth talking about. Neal and I pretty much ate dinner and passed out.

Saturday night most definitely warrants discussion. Shawn, C, and I. South Beach. Uh-huh.

They're supposed to pick me up at 9:45, so I get all tarted up and then wait for Shawn's late ass to arrive. We make lousy tme on the way there, partly because I'm the moron slamming those Smirnoff Ice things. They're tasty, but I'm pretty sure once the liquid hits your bladder, it expands to 9 times it's original size, because I don't usually have to pee like a kid bundled up for sledding after a single drink. But I did.

We get to South Beach at about 1 a.m. It's hopping like a Midwestern small town's McDonald's parking lot on "cruising the square" night. Actually, nothing like that, since the beautiful people milling around South Beach are people I could relate to, unlike the scary rednecks from my hometown.

So we park, and are ready to go after I pop a squat by the car one last time to drain the dragon. Yes, girls can call it a dragon, too. Jamiestar is an equal-opportunity urinator.

As we're milling around, deciding where to go, a man recruits us to go to a club. In line we go, and into the club we go.

It was cool, and much smaller than I expected. The drinks were expensive and horrible. I don't want to talk about it. Of course, that didn't stop me from sucking them down. How quickly we forget the bladders full of 10 minutes before.

Shawn started dancing with some guy right away. C and I vegged and drank and smoked until Shawn came over and dragged us onto the dance floor. I learned today that beneath the dance floor was a giant aquarium, but I certainly didn't notice while I was tearing it up. Too bad, that might have been cool. Oh, well - you can't live in the past.

Shawns favorite part of the night is when I looked at her, C, and a few other people all sitting in a row on the edge of the dance floor. I thought they were all sitting on a bench, and I was kinda tired, so I lined myself up next to C, sat down and proceeded to bust my ass onto the dance floor. Because there was no bench. Nope. Just a few chairs, and while I'm not a big girl, thin air and cigarette smoke just simply aren't enough to support my drunken self.

At one point Sunday, I felt a large and sore lump on the back of my head. I'm pretty sure I smacked it on a bar during that incident. War wounds. I should get compensation for sacrificing my body like this.

After dancing for ages... um, well... somehow we end up in a strip club. I'm not sure how this happened. One moment I'm riding in a car, the next moment I'm facing a bouncer thinking to myself, "If he thinks I'm going to pay five bucks to go in there, he is very, very wrong," and the next moment, I'm sitting backwards on a chair sipping an expensive drink and talking to this European guy about how pretty these girls are.

Now I know how it feels to be the man of honor at a bachelor party.

The strip club was actually pretty uneventful. They were the prettiest strippers I've ever seen. (Yes, I've been in these joints before. My first lap dance at Mardi Gras is a story for another day.) One girl wouldn't leave me alone, and kept telling me to relax and have fun. The reason I wasn't really having fun is because I was so damn relaxed, I was practically in a coma. It was between 4 and 5 a.m., but that's just a guess.

All I know is when we leave, we walk out of a dark club with live dancers and flashing lights and pulsating music... into broad daylight. I couldn't believe it. It was Sunday morning. Nothing feels quite as dirty as stumbling out of a strip club after a night of drinking and smoking and dancing and sinning with the knowledge that your parents are on their way to church at the very same moment. I'm going to change the subject now.

We pile into the car. Shawn backs out of the space. Into a police car. For karma reasons, I'm not going to go into detail, but we didn't get into trouble. Never mind that if I'd been driving, I'm positive I would have been immediately printed, photographed, and thrown into jail for the rest of my sad little life.

I slipped into above-mentioned coma on the ride home. All I know is I woke up in my driveway with C's infant son next to me. I don't think he was with us the whole night, but I can't be sure. (I'm kidding, of course.)

When I stumbled into our bedroom, I found Neal face-down on our sheetless bed. He was lying on the plastic mattress cover, fully clothed, complete with dress shoes and his cell phone clipped to his belt.

Guess I wasn't the only one to have a wild night.

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