I'm substantially behind in the inebriation department and well ahead of the crowd when I arrive at the Cha Cha for phase n-1 of the public birthday festivities. [Are there so many March birthdays because of so many June weddings?] Then, the lower level fills with Hideout refugees. Whiskeys mixed with soda and quickly discarded citrus slices. Piling into the photobooth, at least two turn out cute. Then, it's sharing a hastily-ordered drink really quickly to walk up the hill to Havana.
Everyone is there, half-dancing, half-congregating in booths, drinking and waiting for Ratatat to come for their d.j. set. I get a hug that almost breaks a rib or two. The band arrives with lights and a camera crew and spins a not particularly exceptional set. But then, at the end, there's this Can't Buy Me Love moment, and flailing about like lunatics spreads like wildfire. The lights come up, a Pulp song ends, it's back out to the street. A little singing, transit plans, home to sleep.
