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They Called Them Riots before/after
Roomie:"Uhhh, okay...I think its time to go..."
The police had just strapped on their gas-masks, a clear sign that something wildly bad was going to go down. But i was undaunted. Leave? Hell no. Not when that luscious girl over there is about to bare her naked titties for the amusment of the thronging crowd.
Me:"Wait a tic...I want to see that..."
And a gorgeous, well proportioned blonde girl lifted her shirt presumeably under the goading of the crowd chanting "Show your tits", but which I have to believe is a mixture of her own desire and fear.
It had been a good night, and a good weekend, despite my timing being lost, and foundering in a fog of no attention span.
Smoked an almost egregious amounts of the killer sensimilla. I find that I take toking in public for granted anymore. I have no conscience about it, and am liable to light up anywhere.
It started by going downtown to John's awesome apartment on Larimar square. he has a spread on the 27th floor with the best view of Lodo and the Front Range that I have ever seen. A small thunderstorm struggled over the last step, discharging rain and lighning over one hill.
We watched the game, a culmination of a season-long hockey binge on my part. For the playoffs in particular, I believe I may have missed 2-3 playoff series in their entirety. Sick, sick, bread and circuses.
And the game ended. And the crowd gathered primarily to start with on the corner that John's building occupies.
We filtered down and meandered around. Girls got on guys shoulders and flashed their breasts, which I believe is what the whole 'riot' thing is about, and should be condoned by the police.
One girl got up on some shoulders, and listening to the chant of the crowd, turned to her boyfriend, who was on the phone, and asked. "Do you care?"
He glanced, and said dismissively, "I don't care." much as to say, "I'm on the phone,"
And she flashed the crowd. This guy is cool as hell in my book. Not because of his indeifference, but because of confidence. I know so many guys that would freak out about a thing like that, and I used to be one of those guys.
I no longer care. But then, I no longer care about a fuckload of stuff.
So taking heed of the preparations of the cops, I eventually acquiesced to Roomie's increasing admonishments to go.
So we went to the Wynkoop brewery, which is a multi-level bar, and brews its own beer.
There was a private party in back, where we had our own room with free beer.
I got religiously fucked up.
Made eyes and flirted with some girls, but my timing was way off, and is likely way off, still.
Sheila was there, but I didn't care. Fucking watched me like a hawk, once again.
Left and went to the Purple Martini, looking for John, but couldn't find him.
Roomie later found John: "Yeah, he was slumped in the back, completely out of it, barely comprehensible. He said he'd been tear-gassed, all his friends had left him, and he was reduced to ordering drinks, and pinching the girls' asses that came over to bring them to him. It was pathetic. So I left."
Went to the goose for a night-cap, and to meet some friends. One of the bartenders, who seems to have an axe to grind with me, tried to piss me off in a passive-aggressive manner, but I didn't feed into his little games.
Went home and crashed out.
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