By the end I had developed a complete theory about Gulf Coast masculinity, alcohol and the instability of eyewitness testimony. Afterward I found myself beside Alan Hunter and explained most of it to him.

He listened politely.

When I finished, he said, "So you liked the Film?"

I said yes.

He said, "Good."

That was the conversation.

There was a girl there I had been trying to get with for probably two years. We already knew each other from the little Birmingham Hipster world where the same 80 people attended Bottletree shows, art openings, nonprofit fundraisers, Sidewalk parties and anything advertised with a screen-printed poster. We had mutual friends. I had helped her move a bookshelf once. She had seen me play trivia badly. We had spent perhaps fifteen accumulated hours talking at events while each pretending the other had appeared there by chance. She wore blunt bangs before blunt bangs came back around again and had a small tattoo from an artist everyone knew personally. She worked for a nonprofit whose mission I never fully understood. Something involving food access, children and a grant cycle.

I walked over holding another beer and said, "Alan Hunter and I were just discussing Limo Ride."

She was actually impressed iirc. We went to another bar with some Sidewalk people. I bought us drinks. She sat beside me. Her knee touched mine. Things were progressing despite the material.

At one point she said, “I always thought you didn’t like me."

I said, "No, I've been conducting a lengthy internal review."

She laughed iirc. I was in imho. Then we joined the Film people. Someone asked what I thought of the editing in Limo Ride.

"Very Altman," I said.

"What do you mean?" said a Hipster

"The overlapping dialogue"

"There isn’t any."

Someone asked my favorite Altman.

"The Last Picture Show."

"That’s Bogdanovich."

Done. Film Curation identity audited and liquidated in twelve seconds.

The Girl laughed into her drink. The internal review was closed.

I went outside and checked my phone.

My Gay Roommate had texted:

``Do not come home tonight. Having gay sex. Serious.``

He was Gay and generally understated, so I took "serious" seriously.

I replied:

"Understood. Supporting SHOUT."

This was not true yet, but it became my plan. A buddy had texted earlier that there was a SHOUT after-party at somebody’s loft. I had no business driving. I knew this. I then proceeded to drive drunk iirc. I reached the building and parked in a garage beneath it. Or near it. Possibly beneath a different building. There were rainbow wristbands on the floor, which I took as confirmation.

I texted my buddy:

"I am here. Which floor."

He replied:

"Where are you"

I sent:

"Garage"

He replied:

"There is no garage"

I concluded the party must be accessible through a stairwell and sat down briefly to develop a route. Next thing I knew I woke up several hours later on the Concrete beside my Car with my Sidewalk program folded under my head and one hand still holding the keys, with a Scumbag security guard was standing over me iirc.

"You with that fuckin’ queer festival?" asked the Scumbag

I got up, steadied myself against a concrete pillar, and began walking away with what I believed was enormous dignity.

(https://xoxohth.com/thread.php?thread_id=4730190&forum_id=2#50022428)

write the sequel to this

(https://xoxohth.com/thread.php?thread_id=4730190&forum_id=2#50021278)