UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
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Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Saturday night at an East Village restaurant called Star Foods, it looks like a tanker full of hip has run aground on 1st Ave, a greasy slick of skinny music lovers burbling outside, fouling the visual landscape and damaging the habitat of the local fauna. It's, you know, whatever, a show, and I'm going to see some friends play music, as soon as I finish smoking these ten cigarettes out on the curb. (Because you can save up nicotine like that, di'n'tcha know? You won't feel as jittery indoors if you pre-smoke, and in fact if you smoke an entire pack in the morning, you won't need to smoke all day!)
J.Ro is in attendance, and is my witness to what follows. The opening band was playing some appealing, dirgey, Nouvellevet Underground kinda shit, and I noticed a girl at the front of the crowd trying to, like, interact with the band, mostly by putting her flattened palm a few inches from the guitarists' faces in that white-gloved traffic cop signal for Stop Now. They didn't stop, but after they finished their song she had words with the bass player. From where I was standing, I saw him shrug all noncommittal and give her a buck-passing head-jerk towards the singer, who looked like a resurrected David Lochary from Pink Flamingos, and was wearing a blue and white striped suit jacket with no shirt. DRUNK GIRL: Hey, you suck. LEAD SINGER: What? Go Away. DG: But you suck. Stop playing this crappy heroin music. LS: Siddown, you're drunk. DG: (Eyes widen insanely) We should have a poetry reading. LS: Go. Away. DG: No one wants to hear this crappy music! CROWD: Yes we do. Sit down, drunk bitch. Go away. Get the fuck out of here. You suck. DG: No! The band sucks! (plops down on a bench and rolls eyes at ceiling) At this point, people are flinging so many eye-daggers at her that you can almost hear a whizzing noise. Especially angry are several girls who I peg as the band's girlfriends. They want blood, but they don't really want to touch the drunk girl because she has so little style that even looking at her makes them feel less hip by virtue of proximity -- she's wearing a long denim skirt, a sleeveless mall-top, and her hairdo is a butch-clueless-Canadian disaster with red streaks. Plus don't even get me started on her shoes (snap!). I need a cigarette, and I think it's time somebody steps in before this freaky twist starts biting people. The way she's lolling her head around makes me think she's tripping, or at least on some antisocial MDMA variant, and she only strengthens my suspicion when, in response to my concerned "Hey hey are you all right?" she says "who is that girl with you? The one with the enormous eyes? She's an angel." Yeah. Time to get this floozy some air. * * * ...Not that it's easy to remove a drunk and possibly tripping girl from a rock show-in-progress, especially because the crowd is forming hate-walls to prevent her passage anywhere near the performers, and also now there are whizzy eye-daggers being tentatively hurled at me because it looks like I know the fool. Which I do not. "I'm taking her out of here," I plead, "lemme through!" Grudgingly the Rad Sea parts, and I manage to push her out the door. She's got two jackets in her hand, one of which she says belongs to her "Jewish friend." I assume aloud that she's not talking about me, and she says "You're not Jewish. Jewish boys hate me." I can only light cigarette #11 in response. Some folks loitering on a car hood recognize and hail her, but a quick poll of these sub-hip scenesters (they have kind of Jersey air about them, though they're probably just NYU students from the Midwest) reveals that they just met her tonight, and her name is Therésè (see, I knew she looked Canadian). They don't know if she's on anything, but they don't think so, and yeah, her pupils are normal. But she seems so... freaky. Wooden, wide-eyed, semicoherent, oblivious to the fact that she pissed off a lot of skinny revelers with extremely dangerous shoes. I'd hate to see her get Blahniked to death or whatever. After enduring a twenty-minute volley of questions about her chemical intake, Therésè decides it's time to get back to the show, it being Saturday night and all. J.Ro. (who followed us out because she loves to watch a quality train wreck) and I grab a bicep apiece just as she's about to slip past the girl at the door -- who has a stamp pad and lip gloss but lacks a clue -- and pull her curbwards for a chat. Don't be a freak, we beg, secretly wishing that she will be a freak, of course. But I'm feeling a little responsible now that I've removed her, because people are starting to call me a hero, which is of course true. I am a hero who needed a cigarette and can smell a potential post in the offing. "Maybe you don't want to let her back in," J.Ro suggests to StampGirl, waggling her eyebrows meaningfully in Therésè's direction as I try to distract her with shiny objects. "Oh, no, she's cool, she paid already!" chirps Stamper, still not getting it. After several more unsuccessful hints, J.Ro and I agree silently that Our Work Is Done Here, and furthermore that We Tried To Warn Them. "Just be cool, hokay?" I say, employing the intense eye-contact prescribed for admonishing ten-year-olds who make armpit fart-noises at funerals. She warmly agrees to behave, and leans forward to lick... my... cheek. I release her arm with a hot-stove jerk. Shudder. Light cigarette #16. (Story concludes tomorrow...) 0 comments |
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MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS Chan Marshall Rotem of the IDF Eleanor Friedberger Amy Goodman Bernardine Dohrn ('69) Maya Rudolph Joanna Newsom Imogen Heap Caroline Dhavernas Shana Rae Ray DISALLOWED FOREVER "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!" - "from whence" - "...the exception that proves the rule" - any use of the question "spit or swallow?" - the phrase "drop trou" - fake-o reviewer verbs: "penned" for wrote "helmed" for directed "lensed" for whatever - "expat" - the euphemism "passed away" - pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!" (see also: "grassy-ass!") PET PEEVES "confinscated" - trying children "as adults" - "drownded" - misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT. - tattoos in the Courier font - any use of Comic Sans |