Sometimes, the life of a freelance writer is just so hard!This past weekend, I had to observe DJ David Medina at work at two venues for a feature article I'm writing on him. Which translates to: I went "clubbing" like I'm 22 years old or something. I also partook of some not-very-ladylike behavior...the kind of behavior that generates great blog posts...
Let me start by saying that for the past two weeks I have not been doing any "work" at work. I'm not 100% sure why- I have theories but they aren't definite. But on Friday the 6th everything was coming up due: I had a 400 word article due for a freelance assignment at noon, and something like 14 articles that needed to be written/edited for my 9-5. PLUS I had to put together the editorial schedule for two other newsletters at work. I was a tad stressed.
All morning I was on auto-pilot. I pumped out the freelance assignment first. It took me all of 45 minutes (I had already done all the research). Then I tackled the 14 articles while on the phone trying to get the schedules put together. I was multi-tasking my ASS off!
Sometime around three-ish, I could see that everything is going to get done and my boss seemed appeased and none the wiser of how much I'd been slacking off. Job secure for at least another month. AND, by the way, this is proof that I don't need to be in the office from 9-5 everyday: I got all my shit done in one day in like 5 hours!!
Now I could play!
I started surfing PerezHilton and chatting with The Dominican Promoter (TDP henceforth) on yahoo when I hear my bosses talking, and one of them calls some guy an "ECOPIMP" and right away I fall in love with the word. It is the coolest fucking word I've heard in a really long time. So I decide I want to put it on a T-shirt.
Now it just so happens that TDP is also a pretty good artist and a web designer. So I
And he does.
I mean he seriously came over to my house, washed the dishes and everything. By this time, mind you, I had already decided that I was gonna renege on our three-week agreement because quite frankly, there was no sexual chemistry between us. In fact, I began to find him quite repulsive. But I hate to hurt people's feelings so I didn't say so, just danced around the issue of why we were not in my bed doing the do (I said I had to get ready to go and meet my friend in the city).
And I never cooked; I ordered take out instead.
But you should have seen what a great job he did on those dishes!! And my ecopimp logo? Still on its way. Don't hate the playa...hate the game...
So now I was off to work. The first stop in my crazy weekend was a place on Seventh Avenue South for a Brazilian party- just samba til you couldn't samba no more. Evelyn came with me (hey girl!) and we had a great time: Medina really turned it out. There was good music, strong drinks, a great crowd, and yummy 2AM felafels.
I wish I could say that we went home after the felafels. Or rather that I went home. But I made what is called in the hood a "booty call" to a certain Mr. DJ, who I supposedly can't stand but also can't get enough of. Hey- no judging, okay! I had just churned out over a dozen articles in one day, practically skipping lunch and teetering on the edge of a heart attack!
After a few whiskey drinks, the last 30 minutes of House Party II, a handful of old-skool music videos and some activities that I won't detail because it would probably make my sister blush, I finally made it home on Saturday afternoon, where I spent the bulk of the day napping and watching old episodes of Roseanne online.
The next "assignment" was taking me to Bembe, a really hot spot in Willy-berg that I'd visited before (with Mr. DJ, actually) and this time I brought Lani with me (who by the way, has the funniest, coolest mom I've met in a really long time!!!). We hung at her place while she got ready, drank a little rum, and listened to her mom go off on the "African Diaspora mother-fuckers." I just knew this night was gonna be awesome!
We get to Bembe and as usual the place is hot and sweaty and full of people having a good time. Medina is in the dj booth doing his thing and the live percussionists are channeling the spirits. I didn't really dance at the Brazilian party the night before- I admit to being intimidated by the samba- but at Bembe? WHAT? I was in rare form. I might have lost 20lbs from the combination of dancing and sweating. And then gained back 10 from the drinks (shut up!).
As an added bonus to the evening, I ran into someone I knew from college, a certain hotty hot hot hot dude named Orlando- but when you say his name you have to do it all falsetto-y and sing-songy: Or-laaaaaannnnnn-do- because that's how us girls would say it in college. He was as gorgeous as ever...with a wife and two kids. But that's besides the point. He was as gorgeous as ever...
At the end of the night (translation: after we shut down the joint at 4AM) Lani, her new beau that she just met at the club, his two cronies and I made our way to the Kellogg Diner for some breakfast.
Make a note: eggs are probably NOT the best thing to eat after a night of drinking and dancing. Perhaps just a fruit cup and some water. Just my advice.
During our lovely meal, Lani told the story of her ex, Matt, who thought that because he is half Mexican he could eat Habanero peppers like candy. And learned the hard way that, no, no you can't. The visuals of Matt desperately trying to relieve the burning from his mouth...and THEN his balls...will never EVER leave me. That story sustained me all Sunday, as I lay in my bed, tired and hung over as all hell and wondering when the hell did I get too old for this shyt???
*smooches...insert clever closing line here*
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Everybody's got a bomb,
we could all die any day
But before I let that happen,
I'll dance my life away
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