Girls, girls, girls!

So I'm standing in line at the Capri in downtown Vancouver, knowing I'm not going to get in. I've got my hair cut, I've put on a new shirt and my dress shoes and I'm still not going to get into this place, because it's packed. I'm behind about fifty people in line and the line's not moving. It's like the place is fucking Disneyland. The line is backed up to another line across the street to another club, with all the less attractive people in it. I'm standing outside a bar, which looks much more inviting than the club I'm trying to get into. I, of course, suggest we just head into the bar, so I can drink and be drunk, and thus be happy, but alas no one listens to me.
So as we're standing there all these crackheads walk by, because it's Vancouver and it's mandatory, just like having the person in front of you smoke skunk weed on the street as you're walking to a shop. One of them just bursts out with the line, "Girls, girls, girls!" from Motley Crue's hit song. He does this about twice. It's creepy, yet awesome all at the same time, like watching someone blow a puff of smoke out of their empty eye-socket for money.
We can't get in, so we decide after half-an-hour to hit up another club, which is a few blocks away, but we can't walk there because we'll get stabbed, and the girls are wearing heels. So we try and arrange rides. I contribute nothing to this endeavour, because all I want to do is drink, and be drunk, and I can do that in the hotel by myself. We try to get a taxi, but that doesn't pan out. The road to our hotel is blocked off, making it nearly impossible to get to. So it takes us about two hours to get there, and by that time we're pretty much done. On the way back, however, we pass a corner near the hotel with three of the hottest looking prositutes ever. Now: prostitutes aren't supposed to look good. Ever. It doesn't work that way. People like to imagine hot looking prostitutes because they equate them with sex, and they equate sex with teh hotness. Yet, what they get is fifty-year-old crack whores with all their teeth missing. I see them all down by liquor store by my house. I even saw some fat dude dropping one off, and I thought, "Dude, why? WHY? Why did you do that to your penis. It deserves better, like a rotting Halloween pumpkin with a dead racoon in it, covered in instant-mix gravy." These whores were hot, though, so I assumed they were cops. Hot cops, which makes them even hotter. We had to make a U-Turn down a back alley, and of course some shit's going down in there. Drugs and guns were probably involved. I kept my eyes averted. People on the street always try to stare you down, (you're on the fucking street. Of course people are going to look at you, you fucking paranoid freaks!) and I don't need to get in a confrontation with gangs or crackheads. I can do that at home.
There was a pizza place across the street from the hotel, with about a hundred drunk people hanging around outside it. I'm not exaggerating those numbers. We went in for a slice, so we have to duck around all these drunks starting fights. On the way back, one guy on the curb's having a standoff with a guy in the street. He throws down his cigarette like it's fucking go-time. As in: let's go be fags who watch to much UFC. As I squeeze past them, they give me a look that might be fear.
Back at the hotel, someone's smashed a bottle of wine on the ground in let's-start-a-fight fashion (I hate Pink. So much.). After that, it's bath and a bed, where I listen to sirens and screaming. It sounds like home.

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