marsmars

If I had to say I learned one lesson from tonight, it would be to never lose faith in the impact alcohol has on my rational processes. Had I been sober, had I been just a little less inebriated, an already perfect evening would have ended up being "only" perfect. But no, I had to take all that Tequilla, didn't I? And in the process, I transcended the very nature of what it means to be Left, and entered entire new realms of possibility.

But allow me to begin my story by incorrectly starting this very sentence with a conjunction. There, now that that bit of elementary grammar has been annihilated, I may continue with a level of resolve and dignitude previously unknow to your humble servant. The evening started off simply enough. I was with my best friend ("A"), who due to reasons of preoccupations with my field of professional endevour, I have seen sparringly in the past two months.

We hit it off quite well, and the evening was going along wonderfully. Then another acquaintence ("B") dropped in from Montreal, and brought friend "A" and I two very fine Cuban Cigars. A Cohiba for myself, and an unlabeled blend for "A." Now understand that "A" and I are quite thoroughly injected into the world of premium Cigars, so we go through a wide range and garner very specific and exorbidant tastes. As such, it means particularly much when I say that the Cigar I had tonight was easily on my top-10 personal list, when I took all of its facets into account. I believe "A" felt the same way with his own blend.

The night could have ended right there, with the both of us in perfect nicotine equilibrium. Two friends, sitting in the tailgate of a truck in an empty parking lot, reflecting on the subtle nuance of the ebb and flow of market commodities, sharing some of the finest smokes the world has to offer. However, the night was still relatively young, and we decided to drop into our favorite watering hole just down the street (after the sublime aftertaste of the Cigars melted away, of course), and have some drinks.

So we're sitting in the private upstairs lounge, enjoying some Sierra Gold, puffing gently on hookahs (I always take a mixed fruit; "A"-peach), and everything's fine. However, the problem with the upstairs lounge is that it's private, and that particular word somehow dissuades the throngs of attractive women downstairs from ever coming up. In all the times I have been there, there was never much going on "upstairs." Not that it's something I look for in this environment, anyway. I simply go there for the comforting warmth of the sofas, the subtle lighting and elegant bouquets, and the lack of any sort of rules that management imposes on my party.

But I would be a dirty liar if I said I wouldn't mind "the female" type from coming up every once in a while. Not even for the purposes you would imagine, either. I simply enjoy the company of women greatly, if I can get past the point of being intimidated to death by them. So I am sharing that particular feeling with my conspirator, when all of a sudden 5 of the most attractive unattatched blonde 20-somethings walk right in, and plop themselves a few feet away (I can thank the manager for this, btw. He knows my idle fixation with women, and tries to invite them upstairs often. He pulled it off quite well this time. He will be sparred the random culling that will ensue your planet soon.) But I digress...

If the phrase "Carpe Diem" didn't suit my inclinations at that moment, then Latin is truly a dead language to me. For I immediately (but subtly, as to not attract attention) flagged down Ian, the gentleman that handles my account. I told Ian to bring our new guests a round of coronas, to which he immediately complied. I was almost as shocked as they were by this gesture. Because they invited myself and "A" to their vicinity, in order that me way interact with their persons.

[leftmind: "Do they like me? Oh my god, how's my hair? Why is my hand trembling, I've had too much Turkish coffee. God, why did I have so much coffee? Should I run away? If I run now, maybe nobody will be able to catch me."] The first few minutes were excruciating! I just sat there, dumbfound. But the few comments I could manage to squeek out seemed to charm them thoroughly. [leftmind: "Could good things really happen to those who wait? Is god making up for the mockery of a life he's made from me so far?"] They ended up asking me for my number, and forcing their own numbers upon my unguarded person! The gall! They even talked me into meeting them in the same place, next Wednesday.

Shakes his head in disgust... Some women are really contemptable, you know? And of course I'm going to be there Wednesday, being the gentleman that I am. I always honor a promise. The least I can do is make it enjoyable for them. I've already had my man special-order my favorite Vodka from Poland, so it will be on the premesis in time for my engagement. I can only hope I pick out the right shirt from Sak's tomorrow. I'm thinking of something along the lines of bright pinstripe, to go with this little suede number I bring out for special occasions. But I have tremendous faith in my ability to pull together an ensemble.

So perhaps this is a turning point in Left's Kampf? Maybe I am compatible with a clique outside my own? It seems as if only time and a little help from my friend Vodka will yeild those answers. Regardless, it is shaping up to be another extraordinary Wednesday.