Mickey Rourke & Me

So, in the spring of 2008 I was living in Coral Gables (a trendy suburb of Miami) with my roommate from Dominica, 'Boobies.' Boobies, by the way, is a ridiculous human being who has clearly consumed more alcohol and illicit substances on his own personal journey as a jew at the University of Texas in Austin (where he may or may not have stalked Vince Young), through the jungles of Indonesia & Vietnam, and into the shadiest realm of Cannabis culture in Dominica (Side Story: Boobies' pot-dealer on the island named 'Fingers' was this incredible creature lacking specific growth factors causing him to have markedly shortened digits. Fingers could be found trafficking Haitians, hustling pot-sales, or watching TV on my couch on any given night of the week, with equal likelihood).

Anyway, one quiet Thursday night in our apartment at the Shamrock Inn off the Miracle Mile (far classier than it sounds), Boobies suggested that I counter-pursue a cute Indian girl who I had been flirting with our entire semester in Miami. This girl, who we called 'Mondaay,' was very cute, but also very boring, and so I had refrained from foraying into anything beyond Library Flirting with Mondaay (yeah, med school game is sweet), until Boobies noted that our buddy 'Bambi' had IM'd him, imploring me to join him and a bunch of other Indian girls (including Mondaay) on a night out in South Beach for a mutual friends' birthday. My first instinct was to evaluate my other choices for the evening, which were, in no particular order: 1) Watch "The Office" while listening to Boobies hook up with his fuck-buddy, and another mutual friend 'Tax Season' (yep, there's a story there);  2) Call my on-going booty-call, 'Chody' for a little slap & tickle, or; 3) Study. Well, #3 was out, and Chody was sick with a cold, and finally, the thought of entertaining Tax Season when Boobies was done violating her made me angry & sad simultaneously. So, off to South Beach I went.

The crew going to South Beach was a B-Squad at best. Made up of a lackluster assortment of quiet Indian Girls & awkward Indian Guys, I realized I was setting myself up for a potentially tragic night out with the Browns. By the time we left the girls' apartment where the Vorspiel was being held, I had already downed 3 beers, 2 shots of vodka, and 2 glasses of wine (yeah, when I sense impending lameness, I default to drinking anything & everything I can get my hands on without caution. I know...it's the genius of pure survival mode).  We very soon arrive on South Beach, where I navigate us to the perfect, secret beach parking in Miami, and usher the brown parade to the Mynt Lounge - I'm now in full flirtation mode with Mondaay, and she is benefiting from a full-court press by team Dik.

Mynt Lounge is your typical South Beach lounge, located right next to Rok Bar off Collins Avenue, where the women are beautiful, busty, tanned & vapid...and the dudes are their male counterparts, except that they pay for the boob jobs instead of getting them. Our caravan of Indians invade the place, and post up in a cozy little nook equal distance from the dance floor & the bar. As I continue to drink more (I've settled on Vodka Tonics by now), I proceed to dance with Mondaay in the most polite grinding session of all time. Mary rubbed against Joseph harder in the Bible than me & Mondaay were dancing this night.  As I drunk-stared at the biped tits all around me, my eyes fell upon what I first thought was a homeless guy begging for drinks at the bar.

Closer inspection of the vagabond revealed 3 major details to me: A) The poorly dressed tramp was actually wearing ripped up Ed Hardy & Affliction clothing, which was all the rage in South Beach this season. B) This homeless man had somehow managed to suffer from irreparable plastic surgery that rendered his mug closer to the facade of a used up baseball glove than a human face. C) The dude's hair was long. And Dirty. And more over-processed than the scores of artificial skanks strutting around the lounge, looking for their next Papi Chulos.

In my infinite tenacity for freak pop-culture references, I finally realized that the bum standing next to me, soberly chatting up the bartender, was in fact film legend, former on-screen lover of Kim Basinger, and personal hero (have you seen "Harley Davidson & The Marlboro Man"?) - Mickey Fucking Rourke. My night immediately went from decent to epic. My next thought was "how do I fuck with Mickey Rourke?"

A detail I should have mentioned already was this: At the exact same period of time that me & my merry band of FOBs were lavishing in the Lounge of Mynt, Bollywood stars from far & wide had descended upon Miami to appear at a series of publicity events & for cameos in each other's movies, as a way to vacation in a place that wasn't malaria-ridden or rife with tragic poverty (just calculated poverty - I for instance, was broke as shit from student loans funding my alcoholism).  Sooo, with this knowledge in hand, and a group of indians at my disposal, I knew exactly where my conversation with Mickey Rourke was going to go. Giddy-up Harley Davidson - you're about to get Dik'd. The conversation went something like this:

Me (with a british-indian accent): "Hey, oh wow, I thought it was you. You are the actor, Mickey Rourke, yes?"
Mickey (with a delighted air of surprise - this was before "The Wrestler" had been released): Yes, yes I am friend. How ya' doing, having a good time?"
Me (knowing I had a great hook): "Oh, yes, my friends & I are having a terrific time here in Miami, Mickey. The beaches here are so much nicer than in Mumbai, and it is very exciting to meet the Hollywood counterparts to all of our Bollywood actors."
Mickey (noting the big group of indians behind me, and my casual air of mutual star-hood): "Well, I'm ashamed to say friend, but I actually don't know your work too well. What's your name...what do you do?"
Me: "Oh, that's quite funny Mickey! Well, my name is Abhishek Bachchan, and I'm a bollywood actor. You may know my father, he's quite famous...his name is Amitabh Bachchan." - (Click here for details)
Mickey: "Oh god, of course I know you and your father. They featured you in Slumdog Millionaire! Listen, Abhishek was it? Let me buy you and your friends a round of drinks...a welcome present, ok?"
Me: "That's very kind of you Mickey...tell you what, we like vodka!"

Now, at this point, you're probably wondering why the fuck I decided to convince Mickey Rourke that I was  Bollywood movie star royalty? Here's the thing: No matter what situation I'm in, I will always try to make it more ridiculous than it already is. The fact that Mickey Rourke was hanging out at a bar in Miami was absurd enough to me...now imagine if I could fuck with him, and get him to buy drinks for me and my 10 friends (who all, incidentally had no idea who the hell he was). Needless to say, after doing the shots with my crew of fake-bollywood actors (compliments of Mickey Fucking Rourke), and dancing with Mondaay for another hour, I ended up stumbling out of Mynt Lounge to make out with her in the street, and had Mickey Rourke give me a hand-shake as I walked past him at the bar to do it.

Mondaay: "Who is that guy who bought us all those drinks?"
Me: "That's my good friend Marv. He's visiting from Sin City. His face got fucked up in a medical blender accident. God, you have a nice ass..."