Monday, October 11, 2004
Parrot Beach
Well in to double digit drinks, I was in no mood for a surly DJ. When he had the balls to stop Simple Minds' classic (and a Druz karaoke favorite) "Don't You Forget About Me" midway through the song, I did what any self-respecting drunk would do. I started swearing at the DJ at the top of my lungs (to my surprise he heard me in a loud, crowded bar).
It was the end of an epic evening that started with a celebration of my self-described white trash neighbor, Becky's 44th birthday. Becky is great, always there to hang on the porch with cheap beer and stories from her home state of Arkansas that, at times, involve the Border Patrol, an eight-ball and handguns (I realize the border patrol is not in Arkansas but trust me, it somehow makes sense).
The festivities were at the new Baton Rouge nightspot, Parrot Beach, sort of a Jimmy Buffet meets Satan club/bar with a soundtrack about 10 years behind the times and enough frat assholes to, uh, fill a large bar (for those of you familiar with Davis, think The 'Tina on a larger scale with hotter waitresses and more douche bags).
By the time I got to the bar, Becky was barely standing, but still eager to give all of her friends a birthday grind. I ended up driving her home and, after two of us had to practically had to carry Becky to the car, she spent the whole drive telling me that she could drink me under the table.
I dropped her off, got back to the bar and got down to business. As revolting as Parrot Beach is, it was still a blast because really, what else can you do at a place like that but get utterly blitzed? And we did. By the time the night was coming to an end my friends and I were all on the dance floor, singing as poorly as we were dancing.
Then DJ Douche Bag pulled his Simple Minds stunt, I let him know how I felt about it and he said, over the PA, "Hey you, why don't you shut the fuck up." It was time to go.
It was the end of an epic evening that started with a celebration of my self-described white trash neighbor, Becky's 44th birthday. Becky is great, always there to hang on the porch with cheap beer and stories from her home state of Arkansas that, at times, involve the Border Patrol, an eight-ball and handguns (I realize the border patrol is not in Arkansas but trust me, it somehow makes sense).
The festivities were at the new Baton Rouge nightspot, Parrot Beach, sort of a Jimmy Buffet meets Satan club/bar with a soundtrack about 10 years behind the times and enough frat assholes to, uh, fill a large bar (for those of you familiar with Davis, think The 'Tina on a larger scale with hotter waitresses and more douche bags).
By the time I got to the bar, Becky was barely standing, but still eager to give all of her friends a birthday grind. I ended up driving her home and, after two of us had to practically had to carry Becky to the car, she spent the whole drive telling me that she could drink me under the table.
I dropped her off, got back to the bar and got down to business. As revolting as Parrot Beach is, it was still a blast because really, what else can you do at a place like that but get utterly blitzed? And we did. By the time the night was coming to an end my friends and I were all on the dance floor, singing as poorly as we were dancing.
Then DJ Douche Bag pulled his Simple Minds stunt, I let him know how I felt about it and he said, over the PA, "Hey you, why don't you shut the fuck up." It was time to go.
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Don't bother fighting it, you're both getting a Vegas birthday grind in front of dozens of horrified blackjack players at the most crowded casino I can find.
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