It's midnight on a Friday, and I find myself awash in a sea of underground dance hits from the '80s, '90s and whatever the hell we call this decade, which is basically like the '80s plus studded leather belts and ProTools. We're at Numbers (300 Westheimer, 713-526-6551) for the birthday of our friend Kitten, whose most recent claim to fame is her attempt to teach The International Noise Conspiracy how to do the Roger Rabbit against their will. Though I usually love Numbers, tonight the scene is rife with hipsters not aware of the irony in the fact that they're bumping and grinding to Joy Division. But they're all enjoying themselves, and it turns out ol' JD makes for some pretty hot club music. I look around and notice that Numbers is literally wallpapered with faded stickers of Wall of Voodoo, Tricky and a gazillion other bands that have passed through our fair city and drifted off into obscurity, their 15 megabytes of fame neatly archived away in MP3s and on long-dormant fan Web sites. Around 1 a.m. the tide changes, as a good portion of the crowd has left to go cry or ask their parents for money or whatever it is that hipsters do post-witching hour on a Friday. The girls order another round of a secret shot only Kitten knows about, and only one bartender knows how to make: the aptly named "Come Fuck Me Punch." Meow indeed.
1/2 ounce Absolut vodka
1/2 ounce Southern Comfort
Numbers's Come Fuck Me Punch
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1/2 ounce Amaretto liqueur
1/2 ounce Midori liqueur
splash cranberry juice
Combine Absolut, Southern Comfort, Amaretto, Midori and cranberry in shaker. Shake vigorously. Strain into double-shot glass. Tell dad that if he would just give you 20 more bucks, you'd get a haircut and stop wearing women's jeans.