Everyone Loves Corey Hart

Blind Bastard
Ingredients:
1 Espresso Shot (Chilled)
2 oz Vodka
4 oz Pineapple Juice
Grand Marnier
Slice of Orange and Mint Leave, for garnish

Directions:
Put three ice cubes in a lowball glass. Combine the espresso, vodka, and pineapple juice in a cocktail shaker with ice, and shake. Strain mixture into the glass. Finish with a float of Grand Marnier. Garnish with a slice of orange and mint leave.


There’s nothing like a crowded bar full of Hollywood executives to make Minnesota look like heaven on Earth. At least that’s how I pictured it as I queued up outside of Nacional just to get a drink. I was halfway to Saint Paul when Melissa showed up with Houston, the up-and-coming screenwriter she was dying for me to meet. I shook his hand, trying to avoid my reflection in his sunglasses, and thought about Corey Hart.

I could practically hear the one-hit-wonder in my head as we shuffled into the nightclub as if it were get-in-free day at Disneyland. Melissa sat us next to the fireplace with a view of the bar, and started to talk shop. My mind wandered through the room of aspiring Reality TV stars, and into the fire where I dreamed of shoveling snow in Minnesota.

“I haven’t slept in two days,” Houston said talking through his dark sunglasses. “I think I mixed in too much Ritalin with my Rum and Cokes,” he explained pulling the waitress in for another drink.

“Do you have A.D.D.?” I asked suddenly feeling bad about my indifference to the masked writer. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might actually be blind with A.D.D., and not an arrogant rip-off of Mr. Hart.

“No, I have a psychiatrist for a dad,” he said in a flat tone that put an end to my sympathetic questioning. “It’s the only way I can focus on my writing,” he said straightening his sunglasses. “When I’m drunk.”

Needing to mingle, Melissa led us through the crowded bar, introducing us to a handful of development assistants who pretended to know our names. Desperate for an escape, I pushed my way through the dance floor. I was five-paces in when I felt a sharp tug on my jacket.

Turning around, I realized a jacket wasn’t necessary in 90-degree bar-heat, but let Houston stop me in the warmest spot on the dance floor. He delivered a few short squats before I realized he wanted to dance. Hesitantly, I started to sway in front of him. Unsure if he was actually looking at me, I leaned in and yelled, “What are we doing?”

“You shouldn’t get involved with me,” he said with a crocked smile. “I’m a nightmare when it comes to women.”

“I’m pretty sure we’re not dating,” I said leaning away from the man I’d never be able to identify in a line-up. “But thanks for that,” I said spotting Melissa chatting her way up to the balcony.

“We’re not,” he said (probably) staring at me through his sunglasses. “But we will be,” he explained with an abrupt kiss.

Several shocked paces later, I stood at the base of the stairs with the unsteady feeling of cutting class. Grabbing my hand, Houston led me to the corner of the balcony with the intimacy of a male escort, and then kissed my ear. I pulled away, feeling an odd rush of heat around the inner lobe, and let him know I wasn’t comfortable with PDA. “You think anyone is looking?” he said whispering the obvious.

An hour later, we decided to go to The Bar for a quiet, civilized conversation about sex on the first date. Melissa and Houston debated their stance as I slipped into the bathroom. Staring into the mirror that cut me off at the nose, I wondered what he looked like without glasses. More importantly, I wondered why I cared. He was a self-professed womanizer for Christ’s sake.

Heading back to our table with zero clarity, I watched Houston slide around the booth and whisper in Melissa’s ear. I paused; Melissa laughed; and Houston called me over to explain that in the five minutes I had been gone, he decided that he liked both of us. Clearly, this was a new strain of A.D.D.

The next day, Houston called my friend to ask her for my phone number. It was true: he personified everything I disliked about Los Angeles, and yet I was still entertaining it and him. For one insane moment, I was actually excited. Packing for vacation, I wondered what his psychiatrist father would have to say about that. Luckily, I left the country before I could find out.

Suggested Number of Drinks: