When Schools Collide

“Old School, new school, no school rule….

but other than that everything is cool.”

That’s an old lyric from Doug E. Fresh’s “Keep Risin’ to the Top”. I can’t remember who he was referring to as old school and who was new school, but it comes into play in my next story. Have a sit down, kitties….

I was determined to have a grown folks weekend. Although Memorial Day weekend is supposed to be the celebration of those who gave their lives fighting for our country, I decided to preempt the holiday with tons of festivities and sitting on my ass all day Monday.

I’m sure the veterans understood.

But I digress. I partied grown and sexy style; off the chain house party where I don’t even remember when I got home. Saturday I went to my cousin’s college graduation party. That was good, but there was a lot of tension in the air because an impending divorce between his mom and dad. It happens.

But then there came Saturday night.

So I got an invite from a VezLibre friend (we don’t do no free advertising here….figure out what Vez Libre means) to a party down the street from my house. Cool. I tell 2 other friends about it. They too, say cool. I get there fashionably late and arrive to a relatively sparse crowd. No biggie, it’s early and worst case scenario, its $10; I could always bounce.

I decide to further relax myself with an Elixir of Inebriation. First mistake, I decided to get something that I had at Friday’s house party. I thought it was a typical drink but…..nope! Second mistake, I Sonjan’t pay attention to the intricate details of the woman who got a drink before me. She got an Ameretto Sour. Cost? $10 for about the equivalent of 3 shot glasses in the Wild Wild West.

$10??? Not even top shelf. I thought “Ain’t no WAY mine is gonna cost $10. All I want is Absolutely.”

And you know how much mine costed? That’s right….absolutely $10. I was blown. AND it tasted like hooker piss. Which really ain’t that bad….BUT THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT! $10. First Friend came in; let’s call her Nikki. Now, I’m not a drinking type kat, so I wanted to see if her reaction was worse than mine. Mmmm.

“Oh my fucking God, are you serious? $10 for a punk ass gin and tonic? That shit wasn’t even top shelf! And look at this little sippy glass, D.O.!  I coulda got a French Martini for that. Let’s roll, but let’s call Sonja first.”

So we called Sonja….wait. Let me fix that. I called Sonja because Nikki would call her and just babble. “Girl, these drinks are ridiculous. We can’t get our swerve on in here. Me and D.O. are thinking about going some place else. Where do we meet you? There? Here? Inner Harbor? Pulaski Highway…..?”

That shit went on for like 5 minutes until I said “hey. Let me talk to her and we’ll just meet her outside, ok? She already on her way.”
You see, that’s another blogpost in of itself. How men communicate and how women communicate. Do you see how that was almost a useless conference call? How 5 or 6 options were put out there by Nikki and I put out 1 that was the most feasible, cohesive and efficient one?

Anyway, Sonja gets there. Tight whip by the way. Must be nice not to have no damn kids (hehehehe). I suggest we all go to the joint down the street, they suggest I drive. I agree and we pile up in the Blueberry. We arrive very shortly since its right down the street and head towards the doors.  Even though it was less of a mile drive, I think I told Nikki ‘shut the fuck up’ at least 3 times.  Too much co-signed to predetermined facts; or something to that effect.  

After that was situated, all heads turn to the band, I was busy running my mouth so I don’t remember what they were playing. What I do remember it was an 80’s hit in which their rendition was acceptable with the help of the Great Elixirs; preferably not hooker piss…BUT THAT’S A DIFFERENT STORY!! (stop asking me ’bout that!). Because of the debacle at the previous party, I went safe and got a Ling-Ling beer. Just as I finished my 2^nd sip, Sonja lets out a cutesy girl cackle “awww soooky sooky. Look at your girl!” On the floor was a woman in probably her late 40′s who was gettin’ it. Not sure what she was gettin’, but she was dancing nonetheless. Nearby in observance was a brother in a pale blue suit and white shoes.

White.

Shoes.

Sitting across from him was the Scotty reject look-a-like from the Whispers. Nasty nappy handlebar mustache and all. Gross.

Then the white chic jumped up. I thought “Oh shit. This is gonna be good. Fortunately, I was wrong. She had decent rhythm and even Sonja a little stank move on the floor with Blue Suit.

Then, SHE jumped up.

She being….let’s call her Wonda for the disturbingly similar expression she had on her face to one “I’m reat ta go” Wonda ala Jamie Foxx. Even the outfit was Wonda-ish: tank top that was 1 size to big (we’ll come back to that), a beaded tank over top of that, white pants (my party was really disturbed by the pantie line thing), and a pair…wait for or it….wait for IT…..

Polka dot heels. Not stilettos. Regular heels. I was so blown.

Wonda jumps up there with Blue Suit and Stank Move and proceeds to do her thing. Blue Suits does the typical 1 ½ step (apparently his 2 step days were over) while wiping his brow. Stank Move, does her signature move all of the sudden; wraps one leg around Blue Suits waist, and grinds on him. I was impressed. When she dropped her leg, Blue Suit turns around and freaks on Wonda, who, really wants to show out by bending over and touching the floor (you will later be even MORE impressed by this move). What made this even funnier was Blue Suit holding Wonda down with one hand by the back of the neck. The ladies found this wildly entertaining. Nikki giggled while Sonja imitated moves from her chair. I, on the other hand, quickly took the beer to the head and called for another….

I give the band a fair rating until they played Maxwell’s “Don’t Ever Wonder” with the solo instrument being the trumpet. Le ouch. They totally murdered that song. Wonda, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy that and every other song they played. Here’s where we come to the real controversy about how she was dressed.

Sonja: She is just gettin’ it , ain’t she.

Me: (not looking) Mmm

Sonja: (laughs) This is just too…oh, OH, OHHHH!! Oh my God, look. Her breast is about to fall out of her top.

Nikki: Damn, SON! Look, D.O., look!

Me: Mmm MMMM!! (suddenly the neck of my beer becomes truly fascinating)

Sonja: up, up, up, UP! You see? (smacking hands on her lap laughing) There it goes. (leans closer with fingers in the Italian pinch) the breast…the breast MUST be kept secure. I mean…how does she not know that her breast is coming out?

I glanced over my shoulder to take a look. I regretted it. A lot. I won’t be scarred for life but I damn lost any capacity to be horny. I hit the Ling-Ling hard and call for another one….

As quickly as it seemed to have started, the band played an R Kelly song that I recognized but don’t know the name of and called it a night. All was calmer; laughs, pats on the back, winding up of speaker wire….Wonda sat down at a side table with one of the band members who we couldn’t distinguish whether he was blind, drunk, or clumsy. I guess if he wasn’t blind it would have been a hell of a lot easier to navigate around the stage sans sunglasses at night.

The two of them sat down and calmly talked. And just as calmly, Wonda….

Wait for it.

Wait for it…….

Umm…..Wonda….

Wonda took her wig off AT the mutha fucken table. Mid sentence!! Plop! Right on the table like a scary ass spider.

Hair on the table.