Chris Walker Vs. The Now Infamous Bon Jovi Night

A couple months ago I went to San Diego to visit The Mrs. and her friend Sarah. The Mrs. had work so Sarah and I went out by ourselves. We ended up in the lower level of a bar called Malloney’s in San Diego’s Gas Lamp District. Nestled up to the bar, Sarah forwarned me, “I can’t drink a lot tonight so I can only have a couple and then I have to drink Red Bull.” Yeah right, I thought. Whenever someone says that, all it means is they’ve purchased a round-trip ticket to Blackout City.

After a drink or two Sarah decided she was “on the prowl” and it became my sworn duty to assist her. We started pointing out potential guys; Sarah finally saw a guy she thought was “really cute” and pointed him out to me. I approved. Sarah was still too inhibited so we pumped a couple more drinks into ourselves, then I gave her some cheesy line to use. It ended up working. Not that it would have mattered what she said; Sarah’s cute enough to walk up to a guy and say, “Ham Sandwich, you like?” and the guy would end up talking to her.

From what I could tell the guy was normal enough. His name was Some Guy and he was in the Army, Marines, drove an ice cream truck, something, I don’t remember. One arm was completely covered in tattoos. Sarah explained I was her brother and we’re both scoping dudes for her to take home and then to the zoo to battle lions and giraffes. In retrospect: sounds kind of weird. But we were drunk and I was excited about going to the zoo.

Sarah and Some Guy were hitting it off when suddenly, mid conversation, the guy flipped out. It was incredible. It went like this, “Yeah, I like the San Diego area, we’re pushing off for port – YEAH! LET’S DO SOME SHOTS! WOO HOO! YEAH! C’MON, LET’S DO SHOTS!” Sarah looked at me; I looked at Sarah. What just happened? Nevertheless, Sarah and I like alcohol and we adore free alcohol so we played along. Here’s an abridged version of how the conversation went:

Sarah: “Okay, let’s all do a shot and then go smoke a cigarette.”
Some Guy: “Yeah! Let’s do some shots! Whoa!”
Sarah: “Okay? What kind of shot do you want to do?”
Some Guy: “Yeah! All three of us, let’s do a shot! Dude, I know the bartenders.”
Me: “Great, are we going to take a shot?”
Some Guy: “Yeah! Let’s totally take a shot! Yeah!”

That went on for ten minutes before Sarah and I decided free alcohol was not worth enduring a guy that should be wearing a helmet. We left him at the bar, and went outside to smoke.

The bar packed to the point where bouncers were monitoring who comes and goes from the basement level to the street level of the bar so Sarah and I move to the street level. That way we could smoke and drink at our leisure. That was also where we meet the man who made the now infamous Bon Jovi Night what it is today. Posted up against the bar, Sarah noticed another guy she thought was cute. Sarah smiled at him, worked her voodoo magic, juggled her tits, or did whatever a girl does to get a guy to approach them, and New Guy came over. We pulled the same routine: I’m her brother; we’re scoping guys for her; tomorrow we’re battling pandas at the zoo. Unlike Some Guy, New Guy was too drunk to realize we weren’t really brother and sister and the whole thing was a joke but, whatever.

New Guy, much like Some Guy, started off normal enough. He too was a marine or investment banker or whatever. While Sarah and New Guy were hitting it off, I was in my own world, text messaging The Mrs. who was getting off work soon. Then it happened:

“Shot through the heart and you’re to blame / You give love…a bad name.”

Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name” came rushing through the bar’s soundsystem and, mid-conversation with Sarah, New Guy transformed into Johnny Denim Balls. He raised one hand into the air as if he was mimicking Jon Travola a la Saturday Night Fever and started pelvic thrusting toward Sarah. I caught the festivities out of the corner of my eye, chuckled, and went back to text messaging.

Meanwhile, Sarah was backed against the bar. Should she be scared; should she laugh? Johnny Denim Balls planted his fists against the bar, trapping Sarah in-between his arms, and started grinding his aroused denim cock into Sarah’s leg while singing Bon Jovi at full volume. I stopped text messaging to look over at Sarah. She was mortified. Then I noticed the most disturbing thing of all: Johnny Denim Balls was longingly gazing at me while performing his deed.

I gave him the, “Are you serious?” look and it didn’t even faze him. He just kept looking at me, grinding and singing. I don’t know if he had some fantasy about banging Sarah in front of her “brother” or what. It was strange. Hilarious to watch but still, strange.

Finally, I slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Newsflash buddy, I just heard she doesn’t like Bon Jovi,” but Fred Astaire couldn’t take a hint. His brain functions had stopped, he’d been transported to some alternate universe where Bon Jovi is God and women love it when you grind jean-trapped, erect penis into their legs after just meeting them. Sounds like a wonderful place, maybe I should go.

Sarah pried herself out of Johnny Denim Balls’ arm lock and, after quickly convincing him we’d be right back, we left the dude to his illusions of hair spray and butt-rock. We never saw him again. Nevertheless, we were both emotionally scared and Sarah ended up going home alone. At least I think she went home alone. We’d passed the 11:30 PM mark by that point and I was well on my way to time-traveling.

I’ve never been able to listen to Bon Jovi the same way. Forever, I’ll be haunted by the visual of Johnny Denim Balls pining after a brother and sister love combo, grinding his denim cock into unsuspecting legs. In retrospect, we found it so hilarious we’d wished we had taken a picture of the incident and that is where the re-enactment picture came from. That picture was taken at Longboard’s in Pacific Beach.

Posted: February 15th, 2006 | Author: Chris Walker | Filed under: Alcohol, Idiots | No Comments »