"What the Fuck is Going on Here?"

       This was a ridiculous night, so I had to write about it now while it's still fresh in my mind. I'm gonna jump right into it:

       My boy, Owen Miller, A.K.A. Big-E and I were hanging out and skating. I wanted to be in early because I had to read and pass out (at the time of this writing I have not slept for 50 hours). Obviously these plans did not take place, otherwise you would have had no (or at most, an extremely boring) Thurs-Daves. Big-E convinced me that my time would be better off getting 40s and going to the Lamppost, a bar in Jersey City that I go to once ever three and half months. Somehow I gave in, probably because I knew my friend Skeleton Mike was going to be there, and he's always fun.
       A couple 40s and some seriously wasted time later, Owen and I were out to the bar. The second we get there, I heard something familiarly eerie. It was the my brothers band, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, being played by the DJ in front of a packed bar. I was so taken aback I walked past Skeleton Mike and his gorgeous lady friend straight to the DJ to tell him that he was playing my brother's band. It was a very strange feeling, considering that the DJ had also been playing the Jam and the Dirtbombs. Basically, my brother's band is blowing up faster than a suitcase full of nitroglycerin, and this confirmed it for me. I was sure that this would be the craziest thing that would happen to me during the night.

       I was wrong.

       So Skeleton Mike, Big E, and myself were talking about how weird that little situation was when all of a sudden, a man in a studded leather jacket and his girlfriend walk in to the bar.
       "Yo, Dave. This guy totally outdid you!" said Skeleton Mike.
       "Yeah, fuck! You're right. He's got the jacket, two tone hair, and the ugly, punk girlfriend. I just got one-upped, this dude is definitely more punk than me," I responded.
       "Speaking of which, do you remember that really ugly punk chick you once hooked up with?" asked Skeleton Mike's lady friend.
       "Ah fuck you!" I remarked. "You know every time I hang out with you, you remind me of that and it takes like two days to forget about."
       "What are you talking about?" asked Big-E. And here is where I will explain to you, the readers, the background of what was about to come:

       Several months ago, I was at another bar in Jersey City with Skeleton Mike and his lady friend, when all of a sudden this punk chick in her upper to mid to upper thirties walks in. I recognized her as the ex-girlfriend (although it is extremely possible, she was the ex-wife of) my good French-speaking friend, who we will call Frenchie (NOTE: Frenchie was the inspiration behind this masterpiece. Frenchie had to move back to Belgium because this punk girlfriend kicked him out of her house in Jersey City. Why? Because he beat the shit out of her. Honestly, I don't even care about the domestic violence situation (I can't get enough!) for the reason that Frenchie was an amazing guy who had a fantastic taste in music, especially old punk. I once spent an entire evening until 6 A.M. talking about records at his house, but that's another story.
       So in walks his ex girlfriend/wife. She started to tell me about how she recently lost her job, can't find a guy or a girl who will date her (she's bisexual), blah, blah, blah. Somehow, she asked me for a kiss so I gave her a peck on the cheek for two reasons: 1) She's ugly as sin and 2) She was the ex-girlfriend/wife of a good friend of mine, even if he wasn't in the country anymore and beat her. Apparently, my fourth-grade level cheek peck was not good enough for her, because she grabbed my face and started making out with me. My mind hit the panic button and urged for a way to escape the punishment my tongue was surely taking. Luckily, I got resourceful:
       "I cannot do this," I told her, finally pulling myself from her vice-like grip.
       "Why not?" She asked with an obvious tone of frustration and impatience. "Give me one reason!"
       "I still talk to Frenchie." And with that, I was safe for the evening, thank Christ. She could not even stand the sight of me, knowing I still conversed with a man who used to beat her up (of course I had not actually been keeping in contact with Frenchie).

       Fast forward back to tonight, where I told Big-E what I just told all of you readers. Apparently I was talking very loudly, because all of a sudden, the man in the leather jacket turned around for a bit to look over.
       "Oh my god!" gasped Skeleton Mike's lady friend. "That is her. That is the girl you made out with."
       I could not believe her. I didn't want to believe her, but there she was. The same girl I had just described as "an ugly, punk girlfriend" was, indeed, the same ugly, punk near 40 year old woman I had met up with several months earlier.

       And Frenchie was back in the United States accompanying her on the very same night, at the very same bar I seldom go to.

       He must have caught my astonished face or my pensive look, "Could this really be he?", because he came up to me and gave me a big hug and asked how I'd been. I remembered why I liked the guy so much, and quickly knew that he must not have been told I had made out with his...ex? current? girlfriend? wife? And so we talked about this and that, and then he said, "Oh! You remember (Name Omitted), don't you?"
She turned around, we looked each other square in the face, and said "Oh, hey. What's going on." It was the quickest and least meaningful question anyone has ever asked in the history of interrogation, but it lasted an eternity. Our eyes increased 200 fold in the fraction of a second from the shock and inability to comprehend the situation, though both of were able to understand that Frenchie was more out of the loop than any man could ever be (well, almost).
       Frenchie and I continued talking, the whole time my mind thrashing around in that mullet-covered head of mine asking itself, "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?" Even now, I still don't have an answer, but instead, remain just as baffled as I was at the Lamppost.

       There's no moral or lesson to this story. Just a little, "My! What a small world" story. Except this story involved 40s, domestic violence, French dudes, ugly chicks, and an endless supply of guilt and regret. I suppose when you stay confined to the same 10-block radius in downtown Jersey City, you're bound to run into the same people from time to time.