The Trials and Tribulations of a VIP [repost]

I first heard about 6/9 while sipping beer at Dub's Daily Dose. I was a regular. A trusted patron. I even helped to close a dozen or so times...So, when I was handed an RSVP flier for this "obscure party", it was nothing too unusual.

Little did I know it then, but the flier was a Golden Ticket.

Following the instructions to reserve my place on the guest list, I went to BiteClub.com, created a Profile, and added 69 as a "connection". Easy enough.

But, wait! What the heck was BiteClub?

I scanned the site and really felt it out...I added connections, posted a few pictures, filled out profile info...Simply put: BiteClub is a social networking site that caters to the "Lifeblood" of the food and drink industry--the people, places, products, services--and enthusiasts (people like me). Quite ingenious.

I added the site as a bookmark and went about my other online life. Then along came a contest. The 6/9 VIP Contest.

The rules were simple: "be an active member of the BiteClub community: connect, comment, post, and Pimp your Profile"!

Say no more! I pimped out my page with a mean backhand, and for several days I scoured for new people, added more pictures, and fattened the "about me" section of my profile...My "stats" were looking good.

Correction: The Vincible Man was looking good.

And then it happened. VIP happened. At first, I didn't believe that I'd won. But the pulsing pain in my hand reminded me of my busy life in front of the computer...And I smiled.

I was on my way to the Tequila Dreams Factory. VIP style.


The day of 6/9, I made a few last minute alternations to my person, and before I knew it, I was out of the house and into the night.

With an air of confidence and command, I sauntered up to the VIP entrance. There was a slight delay at the door as the verity of my identity was checked and double-checked, but soon after I was allowed inside...And there I was greeted by Bottle Service, a VIP booth, and thumping House Music.

I was first to claim the booth, and so sat alone for a while with plenty of room to stretch and two full bottles of alcohol. I didn't mind one bit. As I took in the scene, and scoped the gathering crowd, I poured myself a healthy dose of Patrón Tequila (gratis) and Vodka (tambien gratis), and proceeded to double-fist my self--with drinks--in front of everyone.

In a matter of a few shameless minutes, I was "feeling it". And with my drinks, and my two step, I began to pace the length of the dance floor. It wasn't too long before I was as mixed up as the drinks and the four-by-four beats...My feet were on fire with liquid courage. I let the music take control...I let go.

To those of you whom saw a fuzzy-headed, bearded, black-and-white-striped, Caucasian male doing his damn thing on and off the dance floor, I can only hope you enjoyed the view...Because if you weren't dancing with or talking to me, you were missing out.

No, really. I don't remember much else about the night, but I do recall being a Smooth Talking, Dancing King.


The next morning, the world was spinning...but at least I was in my bed, clothes still intact, no signs of rape. I had a lot to be thankful for.

And, though I was sloshed beyond slush, I am happy to report that I made not a single prayer to the Porcelain God.

You don't have to die to find Heaven. Or a Hangover.
Amen.