Pearl is a machine.

Saturday was another one of the birthday celebrations that included tons of drinking and incoherence. By the time I arrived at Guandii, the bulk of the gang had already done the all-you-can-indulge Japanese thing, and it was the rare moment when I was sober and able to observe these creatures without blurred, alcoholic vision of any kind. Lucy pointed this out when she stumbled up to me as I approached the table, wrapped her lithe arms around my neck and burped: “Eric, I’m drunk and you’re not. Tell me what’s wrong with this picture.”


Bonnie makes a welcoming offer, while Chace and Luce flip out in the background. A bemused Mikkel looks on

To Pearl, seemingly nothing. Her eyes half drooped open and a self-aware little smile hanging on her lips, she projected a “I’m trashed but I own this club” vibe that rattled across the dance floor. Forget the fact that she could hardly stand; her body had been programmed to the likes of Kanye West and the Neptunes ever since she stumbled across this temple of hip-hop that is Guandii. One moment dropping to the floor per Lil’ Jon’s request, the next pointing at her toes, then spanking some imaginary ass. All of this while maintaining an air of invincibility, of cockiness, of utter drunkenness.


“Bonnie, you’re keeping me from the floor, you birthday bee-yotch!”

“Eric, I’m so drunk,” she whispered to me as she was simultaneously flopping booty all over the table. For one second, I really did think she was about to keel over, as she grasped desperately for something on which to rest her writhing torso before finally settling on first a waiter, then a trash can. Then, some huge hit came on and before I knew it, she had bolted to the stage and was gyrating with birthday girl Bonnie and the rest of her inebriated cadre.

Pearl is a machine. She’s like my IBM Thinkpad that I use here at work; consistent, reliable, looks good on any elevated platform. I often think back to the first time I ever saw her, when she was burning off calories at Babyface with a fever that smacked of a pre-sack linebacker. I asked Eddy’s friend: “Is she a local?” And he laughed and patted me the shoulder: “You think a local can dance like that?” Perhaps only if she were running whatever O/S that Pearl had installed. And as a cloud of hash and weariness settled upon the table, and I was was near death from all the hugs and smacks on the ass from a clearly spaced out Chace, out of the corner of my eye I saw Pearl lying amongst the detritus, eyes closed, head cocked back…and ass shaking to Dr. Dre. Incredible.


The only sober ones