in which i realized i'm closer to 30 than i am to 18

Saturday night at a big ass honky tonk in Bowling Green, Kentucky, a drunk girl bit me in the face.

(Before I go on, I just need to recollect the once upon a time when I wrote a sentence in this blog about my friend Mike and I going to a kitschy little lesbian bar in the west village called the Cubby Hole that had $3 margaritas. And I noted that you should appreciate that sentence fully, because once I left New York opportunities to write about kitschy lesbian bars would be few and far between. Instead, now you get to read about big-ass honky tonks. I think it's a fair trade.)

Now, in this girl's defense I think she might've been trying to kiss me on the cheek. I'm not saying I have an explanation for WHY she was trying to kiss me on the cheek, it just seems more benevolent an intention than biting someone on the face. But when she leaned in for the kill, her crazy drunk mouth hung open like the crazy drunk that she was, and when she made contact with my cheek it was with her bicuspids, NOT her lips.

I was at this honky tonk for my best friend Holly's 25th birthday, and since there was a live band playing rock and blues and country and otherwise really good stuff to dance and sing drunkenly to, when the face biting occurred we pretty much walked it off and stayed in the game. Actually, I think SHE walked off her embarrassment, because apparently even toxically drunk people know to be mortified when they try to eat someone's cheekbones for a late night snack. We just laughed (and laughed and laughed and LAUGHED until breathing became problematic) and kept right on a-dancin'.

I can't think of a better way to ring in a new birthday year than drinking and jamming to live music. Holly and I did it for my 24th this year at Cafe Wha? in New York, and we did it for her 25th at (coincidentally enough) Wah Bah in Bowling Green. We also did a lot of other things, like for example, Holly gave a random lady directions to a titty bar by instructing her that it was "out 68-80 next to the animal shelter," and I sang an original song called "Fuck New Jersey" to a table of country bikers behind us, one of whom later ate one of our leftover potato skins and drank the beer we were too saturated to finish. Good country people. Then we got driven home by our cabby, Julian, whose wife left him for A MEXICAN (his words, not mine) and won't let him have partial custody of his daughter and who is apparently totally okay with the cabby-passenger overshare.

I digress.

I can think of no better way to celebrate a birthday than with live music. This is probably because there's not much I like more in the world, period, EVER, than live music. Whatever it is. As long as someone's strumming something and beating on something and I can wail out some notes, hold my beer in the air and swing my hair around like a wild woman (which I did in Kentucky, dear SWEET LORD the neck pain).

I'm embarking on a new adventure in blogging this week that's all about live music. I'm writing for a site called Live From Memphis -- they've been around for about 10 years, covering Memphis entertainment from art to comedy to film to music. My blog's called Prodigal Girl, and the inaugural post is up now (check it out here). I've got another one coming soon about a band I saw last night at a place called The Buccaneer and many more to follow.

And of course if that doesn't tickle your fancy, you can just keep coming back here for more true tales of a drunk southern girl who dances like Tina Turner to "Proud Mary" before realizing that Tina Turner probably didn't eat potato skins and drink five beers before she did all that jumping and shaking. And rightfully so. RIGHTFULLY SO.


cheers,
elizabeth