Crime Scene

22:28, 11 June 2003

This morning I awoke to a crime scene. Bloody footprints on the floor, blood soaked papertowels strewn about. My hands were bloodstained, dried blood caught under my fingernails. My right foot was covered with the rusty-coloured stain.

Last night, as I drunkenly ate Dominos with a knife and fork (as I am wont to do with pizza), I dropped the knife on my foot. The knife, mind you, was a table knife. A dull table knife. Perhaps it is because I am tall and therefore the knife had a bit more downward acceleration, but somehow that dull table knife sliced a gash across my foot that immediately began to leak blood. Drunken wounds bleed profusely. The blood would just not stop. I'd exhaust one paper towel, lean to get the next and find my foot in a puddle of blood when I turned back. I finally stemmed the tide and went to bed with paper towels tied around my foot.

Earlier yesterday, at 19:30, I was back from the gym and was fighting the urge to go to Trader Joe's and get b/p supplies when my cell rang. It was Limes, leaving work and daydreaming about getting a few drinks before going home. I was in my car in two seconds. We met at El Torito in Beverly Hills, where our "couple of drinks" turned into a margarita, a mojito and a Corona for Limes and three mojitos for me. The restaurant closed at 22:00 and we left, not before I apologetically tipped the valets extremely poorly and all in coins.

"But I don't want to go home," Limes said, in a pleading tone. Again, this is when I spring to action. Nearest bar? Regent Beverly Wilshire. 411 for directions and closing time of bar. Bingo. Off we go to Round #2.

At the RBW, as I shall call it, we stepped into a movie. The Scene: Dim, classy lounge at an upscale hotel. Sophisticated business types drinking cocktails at low tables in upholstered chairs. A live piano man plays smooth jazz in the background. Two women walk in, casually dressed and talking animatedly to each other. They walk to the bar as some heads in the lounge area turn to give them a once-over glance. The girls sit next to each other at the bar, still laughing and talking excitedly. The tall one, in blue corduroy trousers and a turtleneck, drinks a gin & tonic while the one with the Southern accent, more acceptably dressed, drinks a glass of wine and jokes with the bartender. Both women are maniacally shoveling the bar snacks into their mouths. Limes and I had superfun, as usual. But really really we must not go to bars anymore because we cannot afford the drinks or the DUIs we will get driving home.