By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
"He's one of the ones that takes us out and gets us liquored up," 23 said by way of introduction.
"I don't know about that," Adam shrugged and walked away.
"He's cute. Is he yours?" I asked 23.
She shook her head, "He's hot, but he's slept with half the campus."
"Yeah, you wanna stay away from that," 21 advised.
You only gotta tell me once. Usually.
I spotted Derek on his way back, so I excused myself from the Lindseys and handed off my pen and paper to my accomplice as we passed on my way to the loo.
"Fill me in," I called over my shoulder. (Like the movies, I needed to know what I missed in the time it took to pee.)
In the powder room, there were the usual women gazing at their reflections in the mirror perfecting the "Shoulders Back, Titties Out" posture. But there was also something new: a woman practicing the universal symbol of rock the devil horns.
"This hand rocks!" the chesty blond claimed of a horn-shaped right hand, and then of the other, "This hand not so much."
Probably a jazz hand, then.
When I spotted a 40-something woman leaning on the wall, laughing to herself, I had to know what was funny.
"Watching this girl steal a bracelet," she said, nodding at the woman with the dirty-blond hair who was walking toward us, away from the counter where the attendant was selling jewelry. Meeting our gaze, her eyes challenged ours. Then she tossed her braids and swung out the bathroom door. Dirty blond, indeed.
When I got back from the restroom, some guy was wailing Oasis' "Wonderwall" so hideously that I asked Derek for a recap of what led us to this moment.
"Seven guys they were calling them 'Drunk at Work' like Men at Work were on stage, but I have no clue what they were singing," he said of the garbled, drunken sing-along. "He was what's left."
Kyle, an Irish bloke, had commandeered the mic and was parading across the stage, climbing on the pianos and other stage furniture while security reprimanded him. As he screeched and strutted, his friends high-fived him.
"Let's go nuts at Howl and get thrown out," the piano man jeered, though he continued to tickle the ivories. Finally, Kyle shut up and got down, and security let him stay.
To put more howl in the evening, the Wheel of Destiny yielded some more prizes that night. One guy won a fear factor shot of tequila, wild turkey, 151, Baileys, and lime juice.
"I'm calling it a Hairy Sanchez," the bartender announced.
I looked at Derek questioningly.
"Like Dirty Sanchez?" he suggested, slang for a poop-smeared upper lip.
So that would make a hairy Sanchez a plain old mustache then? Neither of us got it. Maybe because just a few cocktails hadn't primed us for the humor. Perhaps a person needed a complete 85 alcoholic ounces to appreciate all the jokes.
However, we were restrained by the wisdom of Night Rider experience that told us, "Howl now, whimper later."