WARNING! This is long. I ramble on for a while so perhaps you would like to take this time to grab a snack or use the bathroom before you begin. I'll wait.
And now, on with the show (blog? story?).
I am generally a non confrontational person. I try my hardest to avoid conflict. I have never been in a physical fight. But apparently the mixture of a biker rally, booze, and one camera toting pimp brings out my hostile side. Thank God that combination rarely occurs in nature.
Last year I went to Street Vibrations in Reno, Nevada. Once a year for a week or so every single biker in North America makes a stop in Reno for a little bit of partying. Naturally I was itching to throw myself directly in the middle of that. I went with a group of girlfriends, Shellee, Rose, and Alicia.
We made matching tank tops for the occasion (Yes, you read that correctly. Matching. Tank. Tops.). It was an inside joke amongst the group of us. They were teal with silver glitter letters directly across our boobs that read "Grand Gals" with rhinestone martini glasses on the lower left side and a rhinestone high heel on the back directly between our shoulder blades.
And now, on with the show (blog? story?).
I am generally a non confrontational person. I try my hardest to avoid conflict. I have never been in a physical fight. But apparently the mixture of a biker rally, booze, and one camera toting pimp brings out my hostile side. Thank God that combination rarely occurs in nature.
Last year I went to Street Vibrations in Reno, Nevada. Once a year for a week or so every single biker in North America makes a stop in Reno for a little bit of partying. Naturally I was itching to throw myself directly in the middle of that. I went with a group of girlfriends, Shellee, Rose, and Alicia.
We made matching tank tops for the occasion (Yes, you read that correctly. Matching. Tank. Tops.). It was an inside joke amongst the group of us. They were teal with silver glitter letters directly across our boobs that read "Grand Gals" with rhinestone martini glasses on the lower left side and a rhinestone high heel on the back directly between our shoulder blades.
Basically the meaning of the shirts was a combination of slang we all use. Allow me to clarify......
"Gal" because:
We do not refer to each other by name, girl, friend, lady, or hey you, we call each other Gal. Like "Hey Gal, check this out:... or "Gal, I'm serious, you need to open the bottle of wine.".
"Grand" because:
Nothing is simply great, wonderful, fantastic, awesome, tubular...you get the point. It is "Grand". If used correctly a phrase using "grand" would look like this...."Gal, look at the guy over there, he is grand." (notice the use of "grand" and "gal" in the same breath) or " This wine is grand. Pour another glass."
We wore the shirts all day and night. The first half of the day several people stopped us asking what "Grand Gals" were. At first we told the truth. We explained that it was an inside joke. But as the day progressed and our alcohol intake increased we started making up stories. Eventually the standard story we gave people was that we are all patients of a plastic surgeon by the name of Doctor Grand. We all met in the waiting room of his office. We had the act down. People either belived us completely or they were too polite to point out that none of us looked like plastic surgery after photos. It was a lot of fun and it was a great conversation starter. Again I feel the need to clarify: Normally I would not wear a shirt that matched my group of friends however given the event, it was appropriate. Venders come from all over and set up shop promoting whatever it is they are selling. All the while wearing identical tops advertising their product, or bike shop, or tattoo parlor, yada yada. Essentially we looked like a group of girls promoting one of those things or our boobs as the shirts would suggest.
For the most part the evening went really well. Drinking, laughing, talking. Just generally having a good time. Alicia pushed her limits on alcohol consumption and it was starting to affect her so we stepped out of the bar that we were currently gracing with out presence. Rose and Shellee decided to stay inside. While Alicia and I were taking a breather her stomach decided to protest and she ran to a neighboring doorway and proceeded to get sick. I was holding her hair back when I see a guy with a video camera cross the street and walk directly up to Alicia and begins to roll tape. Alicia is otherwise engaged at the moment and unable to express her distaste at being captured on video at this exact moment, so I step up. This is when "the guy" who is wearing a faux fur jacket in the middle of the summer, opens his mouth to narrate what he is filming.
::caution, explicit language.::
Me: Hey asshole. Turn the mother fucking camera off. (as I grab his arm and turn him the other direction)
Guy: Fuck you, keep your hands off me
Me: Well turn the camera off and I would not have to touch you.
Guy: Don't ever put your hands on me.
Me: Move it along fuck face. And turn the mother fucking camera off.
Guy: Bitch, don't touch me.
There are a few more rounds of conversation that sounds a lot like that...but then he busts out with this gem:
Guy: Do you like dick?
I pause not sure what to say. As I do not have any objection to the part of the male anatomy he is refering to, but somehow I didn't think it would work in my favor to express that.
Guy: There is a bowl of dick right there bitch, eat it.
I'm silent because at that point I honestly have nothing to say to that. Words have escaped me. Insult me, curse at me, shove me a little. But A. Bowl. Of. Dicks. How the hell do you follow that? At this point is when some haggard looking girl walks up and starts also yelling about a bowl of dicks. She even goes so far as to point to the ground where I guess she believes there to be a "blow of dicks". Still I am quiet and turn back to Alicia to make sure she is still okay.
He turns and walks the other way. Girl follows in tow. It was then that the group of scary looking biker guys walk up (mucho thanks for standing there watching this sweet looking "Grand Gal" confront the scary looking Reno local) and say that the guy was a pimp and that was one of his "hoes". To which I respond "Whatever, but why fake fur. If you own women you should own real fur."
The rest of the night was met with more fun, a KISS cover band and an obvious lack of faux fur wearing pimps. Good times.
My jugular is dangerously close to being ripped out by this guy, but notice that my drink is well out of harms way. Eminent death is no excuse for spillage.
I would like to say that I'm sorry for the profuse cursing in this entry but really I am not sure I could have made my point using a bunch of "screw yous" and "butt heads".
