Went to a show Friday night, after having removed my makeup, taken a nap, freaked out about Skeeter’s foot (more on that later), and then decided to go to the show anyway, even though I was in a pretty foul, dark mood, since I’d been looking forward to it. I just wanted to go get kind of drunk (a rarity for me) and enjoy the bands, and sit on the back porch (the view is lovely, and the door was open so I could hear the bands), but then this fucked-up dude (no, really, his opening salvo was telling me how fucked-up he was on champagne and valium right then) made a skeevy comment about my flame tattoo (that would be the one on my left boob), which is where I realized that we had veered from not-uncomfortable small talk into territory I was too drunk to deal with. So I excused myself to “get another drink” and hid out on the “front porch” of the Pinhook (aka, the bench on the sidewalk), until Greg showed up. And I was drinking Rosemary’s Baby (rosemary syrup, lime, grapefruit juice, and gin – AMAZING), and those suckers are deceptively strong. I had two, and was *blitzed*. Not black-out drunk, but totally unsteady on my feet, in no condition to drive (so I didn’t, I had Greg come get me, and we got the car the next day), and a mite concerned about vomiting a couple times. But didn’t actually puke. Score. And now I know: only ONE Rosemary’s Baby, and that’s my limit. But, dang, they are tasty.

Anyway, so my mood going into this whole thing was…kind of dark and bleak, and so I wanted to put on some makeup to kind of communicate that, let’s say, so that people might be inclined to leave me alone. And then I thought of Aoife’s radass Brody-Dalle-inspired look, and was like, “That’s it!” Black eyes, some dark lips, a bit of a glare, Bob’s my uncle. Not so much, actually, but it warded plenty of people off. (Apparently champagne-and-valium-fueled dudes are impervious, but whatevs.)

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