Fucking. Paul’s. Cocktails.

A friend described my night last night as “Not your fault, any more than it would be your fault if you looked the wrong way before crossing a road and got hit by a bicycle.” I won’t be going into too much detail, but let me just say that I need to accept the fact that I
1. No longer have an alcohol tolerance. Two or three beers is now enough to make me too drunk to decide not to have six.

That’s about it, actually.

fucking paul's cocktails, orange, CA

The napkin holder is labeled "Fucking Paul's Cocktails" - spoken like a regular. Pauls is a dark, divey bar where the regulars arrive around five and stay till 11, when the students get rowdy, go home and have messy monkey-sex by accident - probably.

I’m interviewing the Paul’s bouncer for a production assignment – my next due – and persuading him to do it was the initial reason for going there. I also arranged to meet an editor from LA who befriended me on Facebook. And somehow I wound up playing pool. When I came back, my “friends” had stolen my beer and vanished. I solved the problem by ordering a dirty martini and rashly leaving.

beauty is in the eye of the beerholder

In the women's bathroom. I think it was Paul's but it might be O'Haras. Unlike Paul's O'Hara's doesn't open at 7am.

Later, I decided to relive my Undergrad Durban Fun times of bush diving. Woooot! Yeah, well, I had scratches all over me and a couple of bruises, bits of hedge and dead flowers in my hair. I generally do stupid things when something presses my panic button, as had happened earlier in the day. I’ll know I’ve finally grown up when instead I have a nice warm bubble bath and go to bed early instead.

After that adventure, I stopped in at a shop somewhere in Santa Ana, where a kind man from India who wore an America The Brave eagle cap called me a cab home. We had a warm chat about South Africa and the trickyness of moving to California, despite the fact that I was semi-hysterical, only just sobering up, and gulping down some strange green health drink. Then the cab came and took me the couple of miles back to my apartment, where I showered, managing to scratch myself again really badly with my conditioner tubing. I don’t know what I would have done if my friends hadn’t been online when I logged on… I really needed them right then. The one advantage of the time zone difference is, I guess, that now and again it works in your favour. But that’s usually when you’ve been up to no good.

I somehow – because the only thing worse than fucking up is failing – managed to turn out the assignment that was due at lunch time, get to class on time, and get over my sense that there was some kind of rip in the frame that could never be repaired. Almost everything can be repaired.

Tonight at a birthday party the LA guy told me he passed out in his car outside the college rather than driving a few blocks to his planned crash spot – and confessed to stealing my beer. This made me feel better.

But better or not, I don’t like feeling like a a character in a story from Textsfromlastnight.com, and I really don’t want to see what got charged to my credit card while it was sitting behind the bar. It’ll be funny by next week – I can spin anything given a few days to reinvent the memories – but until then I’m saying an atheist’s Mail Marys.

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One Response to “Fucking. Paul’s. Cocktails.”

  1. The United States of Alcohol « Jean Barker's Sign Language Says:

    […] tell you where a lot of it is being drunk: That’s the dive bars, like Paul’s Cocktails, and The Cherry Pit. And there’s one near me that is so divey it doesn’t even really […]

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