Chubby Clooney vs. Kong
Went to the Dandy Warhols concert at the 9:30 last night; the band collectively kicked the door in, energy-wise, during the first five songs of the set, then dissolved for the next hour into sonically mushy chord experimentation and feedback play. Worth going to – not just to see one of my personal favorites, but also for the conversation that preceded the lights going down, as I was sitting on the balcony surveying the crowd.
My date had abruptly canceled with the same stomach flu that left M. incapacitated on her couch, and I was alone but not lonely. Suddenly materializing at arm’s length: five-foot-eight of jailbait in a skirt and purple shirt that proclaimed, in spangles, ‘Hustler.’ She put a hand on her hip, and cocked her head, and smiled. I smiled back, tentatively, unsure about the nature of this invasion of my personal airspace. She said, “Just wanted to let you know, I wouldn’t even sleep with you if the per-pet-u-ation of the species depended on it.”
I smirked at her, playing like Johnny Cash during his blackest flop-sweat years. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, sweetie?”
She gave me the finger, then turned on a 2-inch cowboy heel and flitted away. Why this incident made me laugh, I can't really say. Maybe the ludicrousness of her assumption that somehow my ego would be crushed with the rapidity of Bruce Lee chopping through a set of wooden blocks. Maybe because it was some welcome randomness after a weekend of Thanksgiving events through which everyone deliberately moved with the formality and care of Kabuki dancers, anxious to not offend, to play nice in the proverbial sandbox.
Later on, after the concert was over and I had completed the five-block shuffle past the underage kids trying their best gangsta lean against the sides of the darkened Ethiopian restaurants lining U St., I sat down and churned out another 5,000 words for the book, the one that I was supposed to complete in a month. December 1 will see me roughly 15,000 words short, I’m estimating. Half of me wants to go stream-of-consciousness simply to meet the deadline; all of me wants to simply finish the thing. At work, trying to get to Dubai.
My date had abruptly canceled with the same stomach flu that left M. incapacitated on her couch, and I was alone but not lonely. Suddenly materializing at arm’s length: five-foot-eight of jailbait in a skirt and purple shirt that proclaimed, in spangles, ‘Hustler.’ She put a hand on her hip, and cocked her head, and smiled. I smiled back, tentatively, unsure about the nature of this invasion of my personal airspace. She said, “Just wanted to let you know, I wouldn’t even sleep with you if the per-pet-u-ation of the species depended on it.”
I smirked at her, playing like Johnny Cash during his blackest flop-sweat years. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, sweetie?”
She gave me the finger, then turned on a 2-inch cowboy heel and flitted away. Why this incident made me laugh, I can't really say. Maybe the ludicrousness of her assumption that somehow my ego would be crushed with the rapidity of Bruce Lee chopping through a set of wooden blocks. Maybe because it was some welcome randomness after a weekend of Thanksgiving events through which everyone deliberately moved with the formality and care of Kabuki dancers, anxious to not offend, to play nice in the proverbial sandbox.
Later on, after the concert was over and I had completed the five-block shuffle past the underage kids trying their best gangsta lean against the sides of the darkened Ethiopian restaurants lining U St., I sat down and churned out another 5,000 words for the book, the one that I was supposed to complete in a month. December 1 will see me roughly 15,000 words short, I’m estimating. Half of me wants to go stream-of-consciousness simply to meet the deadline; all of me wants to simply finish the thing. At work, trying to get to Dubai.
posted by NiK @ 5:25 PM
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