adventures in williamsburg!

That's right, kids! Adventuretime is back! (see previous adventures here and here and here and here and here -- we had to put the adventures on hold during the winter -- snow + hot sexy chicks = steamy steamy action.)

(Well, ok, no, it doesn't. We just didn't go out a lot over the winter because it was too cold.)
But we went out last night -- to a filmmakers' party at Barcade in Brooklyn (which is an awesome bar, if I do say so myself).

The evening started out with an unfortunate backrub at a tiny basement salon run by folks we call the "Chinese Ladies" (for obvious reasons). Thea and I plopped down on the tables, ready to rid ourselves of tension, and I got a lovely Chinese Lady who tried to push her thumbs into my brain via the base of my skull (aaaaaaaaaah). Thea, on the other hand, got a very large Chinese Non-Lady who basically polished her back as if it were a stubborn piece of furniture, and cocked her arms and legs as if they were shotguns. (Her demonstration of his ineptness, when performed at the bar, drew interesting looks from all directions.) It was, sadly, the Worst Massage Ever.

Thea was MISERABLE. So we went to Brooklyn and ate dinner on the street like hobos, and that seemed to cheer her greatly. We admitted to someone later that we had eaten our dinner over a garbage can. "At least it wasn't on fire," I said.

"No! That would have been better! And then I could get those fingerless gloves like a real hobo!" Thea's eyes gleamed with aspirations of bumhood.

And here's where any guy we'd really want to talk to would have had a reaction of ANY SORT. A laugh. A double take. A demonstration of his own fingerless gloves. Anything. Instead, in what would become emblematic of the rest of the evening, we got one quizzical look, and then an almost uninterrupted continued stream of consciousness. About filmmaking. Or bike riding. Or composing. Or composing for films while riding your bike.

We each had an objective for the adventure (as we usually do). Mine was to talk to someone, and just try to connect with him, and Thea's was to hold eye contact with someone from across the room long enough for him to notice her. It was not on my to do list to practice the Straight Up Walk Away (where you just walk away from someone) but apparently I did it with panache on multiple occasions. Personally, I don't think it counts as a Straight Up Walk Away if the two men you were just talking to completely cut you out of the conversation, and you just left because you were bored.

The evening began to wear down, and the duo we had spent a great deal of time being talked at by (who never in the first hour or so bothered to mention their wife and girlfriend! Excuse me, Ref! Red card, please!) continued to talk at us. About the philosophy of filmmaking. And I'm not kidding, this conversation (or something dramatically licensedly close to it) happened:

Filmmaker Guy: I just think that it's important to know where your characters are coming from. What they believe. What they think about. I wrote this film once about this stripper and I went to stripper parties just to see what kind of things she would talk about. What kind of things she would think about.

Thea: I mostly think about laundry and nailpolish.

Filmmaker Guy: And I realized that by not being a stripper I was in the minority and it was a really powerful experience blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

No response. NO RESPONSE. "I mostly think about laundry and nailpolish?!??!" Puh-leez! I was falling down peeing in my pants.

Here's the thing. We're not asking for much. Talking to us is great. We'd just like you to listen a little.

At the end of the evening, I saw a cute guy across the room being harrangued by a bike-riding-film-making composer. I felt for him, I really did, (especially as he seemed to be listening a great deal) and I wanted to rescue him. But if I were to walk over to him (a complete stranger), the b-r-f-m-c might think I was coming to chat more with him. So I waited for Cute Guy to extricate himself, and then Thea shoved me in his general direction, and we started to talk about the b-r-f-m-c and how boring he was.

Cute Guy was a documentary filmmaker who had spent the last year in Kenya shooting footage for his film. Bright guy. Engaging guy. And we talked for a really long time -- I must have said "God, I really need to leave" about seventeen times. And round about 12:15, when all sick parents are asleep, when most high-strung friends have nodded off after their crisis (which they got through just fine without you), Cute Guy gets a phone call. And while I'm in the middle of a sentence, he takes it.

And then he says "excuse me."

And then he goes outside to take his call.

And he's gone for 15 minutes.

So I put on my coat (because "God I really need to leave") and Thea and I walk out the door. I give a small salute to Formerly-Cute-Now-No-Phone-Etiquette Guy and drag my what-do-you-mean-I'm-30-and-not-22-and-going-out-until-1:30-am-on-a-Wednesday ass home.

The Evening's Pros:
chocolate covered pretzels getting melty and linty in Thea's pocket
hard cider
awesome bar
nice weather
lots of friendly people
Mike Tyson's Punch Out (the only nintendo game Thea played as a child)
The Lovely Thea

The Evening's Cons:
Large Chinese Non-Woman essentially milking Thea like an upsidedown cow
general harranguification
geographic undesirability (I had to take the G train home)
getting up this morning (ow)

All in all, a welcome return to adventuring!