Monday, May 11, 2009

Beer bottles and bow-ties.

The evening begins with beer. My new friends at Carlsberg provide the liquid entertainment for the party I am throwing, which is the lead in to a story I am writing for work.

The music is a mesh-up of funk and electronic. The sounds of Chromeo and James Brown spill out of the kitchen and onto the dancefloor. The guests actually dance, which is more movement than I had expected. Eventually someone turns on hip-hop, which naturally prompts a dance off.

I stand, surprised, watching my female friends, who are on the sidelines, mingling with new acquaintances. A party where girls get along? I decide I must have curated the perfect gender-mix. Not quite a sausage fest, each female is getting just enough attention.

We snap photos and smoke cigarettes on the outdoor patio as cars pass along Bloor, oblivious to what's happening on the Bellagio’s first floor. As the small crowd starts to thin, we take a look at our dwindling supply of booze (there was only so much Carlsberg could legally give) and decide we can have everyone out and still make it to the bar before the bell rings, announcing the night’s last call.

Hugs are had and as we pile up the empties and sweep aside a small pile of shattered glass, before hailing a cab and heading to a familiar haunt. A round of drinks is ordered just before the clock hits two, and our table dwindles down to just a pair. However responsible everyone else had been, making it home in time for Saturday morning commitments, we decide, for no reason what-so-ever, that tonight will be an all-nighter.

And when the sun finally does come up, I’m on Skype to Paris. By the time light has filled the entire sky, I’m back at the Bellagio, where I am planning to help clean up the previous evening’s mess. But the cleaners have beat us to it, and all we have to do is bring the record player back upstairs, which we do, and there we find more remnants: a half-filled box of pizza and a single left-over bottle of Carlsberg.

I’m tempted, but I stare it down, and say to myself: No, not yet.








2 comments:

Derek Kreindler said...

So this is what the "Text me for beer" was all about.

Kasandra Bracken said...

this doesn't look like our party room...