Just your average Friday

Edit: If you haven't gone and seen Jobsite Theater's We Won't Pay! We Won't Pay! then you're missing out and this is your last chance to see it so GO TONIGHT because it's amazing and my full review is coming soon

After a day spent pleading with poker players and writers to let me interview them, I tripped down the BBD to check out the film An Inconvenient Truth on its opening night in the Tampa Bay area.

I was pleased to find a nearly-packed theatre. The film itself is beyond description. I can only say that if you don't see this picture, you're doing yourself and our country a great disservice. It's beyond epic. I wish it were longer, but I suppose director Davis Guggenheim decided 105 minutes of powerful material was enough. The end of the film is the best part; make sure you stay through the credits, as they're probably the most important part of the picture, and the only "activist" one.

I walked out shaking and called my parents, urging them to see the film, and I urge you all to do the same. I only wish Mr. Gore had been so clear and charming (and funny!) during the 2000 campaign.

After the film, I ran down to the UA Hangout to meet Tina and Charles. We pasted two #1s on the rest of the country in the span of 90 minutes, and Tina and Charles took off leaving me with a stack of plastic shot cups, signifying the free drinks we'd earned for our superior intellect.

So I crossed the bar and chatted up the two girls who kept looking at me. The blonde scenester type was, as I'd predicted by her body language, the bartender's girlfriend. The other, the brunette, apparently also had a boyfriend, but was awfully interested in my shirt -- a Teen Girl Squad baseball shirt. After explaining Cheerleader, So-And-So, What's-Her-Face, and The Ugly One to her, she asked my name, and I hers.

I strained to hear it through the tones of the Geto Boys' "My Mind Is Playing Tricks On Me." I thought she said "Manda."

"Manda?"

"No, Nanda," she replied.

That's not your full name....

"Fernanda," she explained, and my evening's soundtrack hit the Play button, and would be all Abba, all the time.

So Ferndanda was Brazilian, and I discussed several ways of forcing her to prove her heritage, though she eventually resorted to simply showing me her ID. The eighteen middle names listed were proof enough to me. I've never understood why Brazilians have eighteen names but only go by one of them.

I start using my free drinks to buy shots, something called a "Funky Monkey" or ... I don't really remember. They were Kahlua, Bailey's, Banana liqueur, and cream, and I gobbled them up while I plotted my escape. It wasn't to be, and Fernanda dragged me to the dance floor where we did whatever people do on dance floors. "How old are you," she asked. "Mid-20s," I truthfully responded. She rolled her eyes, and I concluded ambiguity wouldn't be enough. I told her the truth, and we danced a while, before I begged off and said I really have to get going.

She ran to the bar and yelled for a pen, rushed back with a cocktail napkin, and told me to write down my number.

I didn't bother to ask for hers.

Edit: While collecting my things to go down to MacDinton's I found a cocktail napkin with the name "Fernanda" and a phone number written in someone else's handwriting. She must have stuck it in my pocket when I wasn't looking. Not like I'll call her. I can only imagine what a Brazilian's boyfriend must look like.

Off to watch the USA pound the living pasta fagioli out of the Eye-talians. Have fun, kiddos. Oh, and here's something special for y'all: I uploaded Neko Case's Wednesday Letterman performance to YouTube. Enjoy!

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    This page contains a single entry by tim published on June 17, 2006 7:57 AM.

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