Drunk stories you don’t tell your kids

A few years ago, Carl thought it would be great to take me to see Jethro Tull. In concert. That’s the band with the guy who plays the flute like he’s the goddamn Wizard of Oz and hops all over the stage like a minstrel that just dropped acid.

Sure I say and NOT because I like Jethro Tull (listening to Aqualung give me instant Tourette’s and I start swearing at young children), but so I could take a break from the kids who were 2 and 3 at the time.

So we leisurely drive up to Mizner Park Amphitheater in Boca Raton. We have pretty great seats and I bask in the twilight, so happy I have adult time and get to talk with people who know what sarcasm means.

Carl asks if I want a drink. I give him the you’re seriously asking me this? look. He smiles and walks away.

I’m surrounded by rabid Jethro Tull fans. Some are dressed like they just came back from the Renaissance Faire. Others are discussing past song lists from past shows. I’m feeling a little claustrophobic as these fans move closer and closer to me.

Where the fuck are you, Carl?

Once again, I am the youngest person there and the only Asian present. Surprise, surprise.

Carl finally shows up with a lemon drop martini.

They’ve got a full bar here, he says.

Well, thank fuck I say and proceed to down the martini.

The lights on the stage flash and the fucking flute playing starts. Several drinks later and somewhere between Ian Anderson prancing around and me walking to the bathroom, I realize I’ve had too much to drink.

Walking back from the bathroom, I get lost and can’t find Carl. So I start calling out his name like we were playing Carl Polo.

What seemed like 20 minutes later, I finally find him. Carl stares at me and asks where the hell have you been? You’ve been gone for almost 45 minutes? and then I start talking about really stupid shit.

I reached the point of no return where you know you’re drunk as fuck and hear yourself saying all the stupid nonsense that’s actually dribbling out of your mouth, but you can’t do anything about it because the alcohol has taken your brain hostage and this is all a big fuck you from your brain because you spent the previous afternoon doing laundry and napping. And MAYBE watching The Hills. I said maybe.

At some point, the concert ended (I don’t remember ANY of the songs that were played and that’s probably a good thing) and Carl and I walked to the valet for our car. As we’re waiting, I start harassing the valet guy, asking him if he knows my friend Mo from college. Carl’s face is red and his eyes have rolled at least a few dozens times within a five minute span. A security guard comes up to us and asks if there’s a problem and I start harassing him.

That’s when I got kicked out of the amphitheater. By a rent-a-cop. To top it all off, as I’m trying to get my drunk ass into the minivan and still trying to bitch everyone out for not knowing Mo, I do a faceplant right into the armrest.

There’s probably a WANTED poster of me hanging in the security guard break room. Still.

The next day, I ask Carl what the fuck did you put in my drinks last night?

Nothing, shit for brains, he says. You fucking drank too much and made an ass of yourself. AND you got a black eye from falling. Way. To. Go.

Where’s my fucking sweater? I yell. I just bought that goddamn thing and it was expensive. Oh shit. Don’t tell me I left it there for those Jethro Tull crazies to wear around their goddamn heads?!

THAT’S what you’re worried about after last night? he questions.

Definitely NOT my proudest moment. And yet, it isn’t the worst either. Which is really fucking sad.

The lesson to be taken away from this experience is:

1.don’t have more than two martinis on an empty stomach
2.Ian Anderson is on drugs
3.Jethro Tull music causes seizures and extreme drunkiness, followed by asshole behavior
4.be more discriminating when Carl suggests a concert

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