Alternate name for Jägerbomb: LIQUID COCAINE
Birthdays, while a good excuse for a party and a Jägerbomb, also have the potential for resulting in a spate of inapproriate tears. Birthdays are just emotional, y'know? I observed this Saturday night with my friend and old coworker, Magdalena (the pseudonyms just keep on coming...it's kind of fun, like discovering your best friends living in an alternate universe). Magda hosted her 27th birthday party at a restaurant/club in Alhambra, with an excellent dinner followed by a reserved VIP room. The best part of the VIP room was this sign: 
A group of about 15 friends and family, including her shake-ya-booty mother, ate dinner and drank alcohol before dancing hard to raggaeton/ Kanye West / Bell Biv DeVoe mash-ups, concocted by a DJ who kept shouting, "This is how we do it on Saturday nights!"
. I was kinda ready to kill him, but he redeemed himself with a few slick moves on the turntable--including a dance remix of Nirvana's "Come As You Are." You, sir, haven't lived till you've heard Kurt's voice rumbling over an electric drum beat, "Take your time/ hurry up/ choice is yours, don't be late..."
Yeah, ye-ah-ah, yeah!
The collection of close friends and family members was probably overwhelmin
g for Magda. The margaritas and Jägerbombs, the mother (who's divorced and still good friends with Magda's father--the most confusing type of divorce, I think) and sister, the clouds of cigarette smoke and flash of men's gold necklaces, it's probably all a bit much on the day you're turning 27, and you're still paying for school, and you're single by choice and wanted by the wrong kind of asshole guy.
Magda opened the martini glasses I gave her. They were packed in a tan box we kept joking was a cake. ("Happy birthday; here's your cake.") She very slowly pulled out one glass to look at, and I said, "Remember? You said you needed some?" and she nodded, brushing at her eyelashes, and I said, "Your eyes are red," and she said, "I know," and we sat quietly for a full minute. Birthdays, indeed.
A group of about 15 friends and family, including her shake-ya-booty mother, ate dinner and drank alcohol before dancing hard to raggaeton/ Kanye West / Bell Biv DeVoe mash-ups, concocted by a DJ who kept shouting, "This is how we do it on Saturday nights!". I was kinda ready to kill him, but he redeemed himself with a few slick moves on the turntable--including a dance remix of Nirvana's "Come As You Are." You, sir, haven't lived till you've heard Kurt's voice rumbling over an electric drum beat, "Take your time/ hurry up/ choice is yours, don't be late..." Yeah, ye-ah-ah, yeah!
The collection of close friends and family members was probably overwhelmin
g for Magda. The margaritas and Jägerbombs, the mother (who's divorced and still good friends with Magda's father--the most confusing type of divorce, I think) and sister, the clouds of cigarette smoke and flash of men's gold necklaces, it's probably all a bit much on the day you're turning 27, and you're still paying for school, and you're single by choice and wanted by the wrong kind of asshole guy.Magda opened the martini glasses I gave her. They were packed in a tan box we kept joking was a cake. ("Happy birthday; here's your cake.") She very slowly pulled out one glass to look at, and I said, "Remember? You said you needed some?" and she nodded, brushing at her eyelashes, and I said, "Your eyes are red," and she said, "I know," and we sat quietly for a full minute. Birthdays, indeed.
posted by CC at 4/17/2006
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