While Tex, droned on about Madonna versus Gaga, I motioned to the waitress for another pitcher. Unfortunately the service was slower than the karaoke line up.
Judy, the best 60-something MC and occasional partaker was keeping a close watch on this weeks douche bag. A meat head, who recently picked up a copy of the City Pages and weaseled away from his college campus so he could get drunk in the city and sing another awful rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” inspired by Glee.
“So what do you think, Kell?” Tex asks, snapping me back into the conversation.
“Long live her Madgesty” I dryly praise, telling him exactly what he wants to hear.
Johnny Ray, Tex’s newest, and mousy conquest uncomfortably twitches before butting in.
“What about Cher?” He asks.
Everyone at the table groans.
“She’s obsolete. I mean Madonna was part of a revolutionary generation. Cher was part of a duo.” Tex barks.
“Yeah, but she is still cutting edge.” Johnny points out.
“Was, cutting edge! What the fuck has she done lately, other than Burlesque? She’s got one trick up her sleeve and that’s Euro-beat, fag trash.”
At this point, the booth gets silent. Our waitress somehow manages to bring a new pitcher of beer, without even asking us and the rest of us fill our mugs to the brim.
“I’d say Madonna’s career is closely following Cher’s, just as Gaga’s will Madonna’s. It all comes down to the evolution of the generation, not the artist.” Johnny defends.
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, babe.” Tex smugly snarks before finishing off his whiskey.
Johnny flashes Tex his middle finger before pushing his way out of the booth. “I’ve never meant it more than I do now, but you can go fuck yourself. Literally.”
With that, Johnny Ray is gone, while Tex orders one more whiskey. Jenny elbows Tex to follow him, but he shrugs it off.
“His loss.” Tex smirks.
“Can we forgo the Gaga, Madonna, debate for a while?” I ask.
“Only if you come home with me tonight.” Tex replies.
“Tex, Tex, you of all people should know, gentleman prefer blonde's.” I shoot back. It does the trick. For now, until he finishes his second whisky.
After a round of the so called classics and over done “Summer Nights” and “Love Shacks” I’m about ready to stumble out of the bar. Tex finishes up Madonna’s “Dress You Up” while the rest of us get our coats. We head for the exit, waiting for Tex, who purposely falls into me and asks for a lift. As we’re leaving, the bouncer barks at us to pay our bill, something we all try to avoid, so I pool everyone’s singles and head back inside. Thankfully Jenny persuades Tex to ride with her. He kisses me on the cheek and sways out the exit with the rest of the gang.
After paining through a Coyote Ugly cadets version of “One Way Or Another” the bartender hands me my credit card and the slips to sign. Judy announces the next act and I’m ready to fly out of here until the instrumental from “Just Be Good To Me” by the SOS Band hits the speakers. Everyone in the bar retreats back into their “I don’t know this song” mode and suddenly I’m completely overtaken by the sexiest rendition of this song. I try and catch a glance of the performer but she is blocked by some drunken frat boys hooting and hollering.
I try a side step, but two sorority sisters bounce toward the bar and spill their drinks on my shoes. Completely annihilated they continue past me, unaware of the accident and order two lemon drops. No one gives the singer props, but I’m completely and utterly in love trying my best to get toward the front.
The song is nearly over, as I make my way toward the performance and see her. My karaoke queen is a cross between Zoe Saldana and Rosario Dawson rocking the shit out of the song. Donned in skinny jeans, a plain white tee, covered in a Men’s red flannel and biker boots, she finishes strong with minimal applause. One asshole screams “Next!” while I make it a point to clap as loud as I can. She notices and gives me a quick wink before disappearing into a group of hipster friends.
I take one last look, knowing our paths will never cross again and exit.
Outside, I remove a Parliament from its silver cigarette case and dink around with my lighter. The flame ignites and immediately distinguishes as I place it against the tip of my cigarette. I try, try, again, but it just won’t light so I chuck it into a bush and start to unlock my bike. When I do, I notice some assholes banana seat bike, chained to mine.
“Need a light” a voice asks.
I turn and see my SOS goddess, now in a light jacket and cheap knit hat. She’s already smoking and throws me a lighter. It hits me square in the chest, then the ground. She laughs.
“I hope you’re not driving” she says.
“Safety ride.” I tell her, slapping the seat of my bike. I pick the lighter off the ground and light my cigarette, as she approaches and hovers over me.
“Mind if I get in there?” She asks.
I stare at her dumbfounded.
“That’s my bike” she says, pointing at the banana seat.
“Oh” is all I could escape before handing her back the lighter and letting her through. She grazes part of my body and smells like a cherry clove.
She releases the bike.
“It’s all yours” she states, walking off into the distance.
I watch, as this perfect woman escapes me once more. She turns, feeling my eyes on her backside.
She shouts across the parking lot “It was for you!”
“What?” I scream back.
“The song” she remarks before hopping on her bike and riding off.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Rusty
This drug races through my veins like an atom bomb exploding under water. Everything from the depths blows toward the surface and my innards are now exposed to the world.
The dark circles under my eyes seem to intensify as I stumble toward my wall of vinyl and pull out Movin' With Nancy by Nancy Sinatra. The needle drops, while another one is picked up. "Things," her duet with Dean Martin skips to a start and crackles enough to scare me out of my next binge.
Around my ankle is a red bandanna, wrapped tightly around the heel of my high waisted skinny jeans I've had since 1987. Miraculously there aren't too many holes, but the once beautiful blue wash has faded to a marbled gray.
The potency kicks in and suddenly I'm in a wave pool surrounded by overweight Midwesterners bobbing and screaming on their circular inner tubes. One woman calmly lies on top, not a splash on her suit. I can't help but wonder how she got in, since we're both trapped in the middle of the Olympic size watering hole.
In an instance I'm back in my apartment. The last thing I remember was walking toward the kitchen. Now I'm seated in my living room with a half eaten sandwich on my lap watching "Goonies." My attention of the film fades in and out until Sloth screams on camera and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. Like a bad accident I can't look away, but the more I watch the more I slip into the film.
I close my eyes. When they're open I feel myself peddling furiously down a road on a mini-bike. I am Josh Brolin's character, chasing after my little brother. A convertible pulls up and the driver screams out my name but has no face. The female co-stars faces are upside down and their smile is like a runny water color. The driver grabs onto my arm and revs his engine. I am now peddling for my life as the car speeds up, dragging me along. I lift my feet and the bike collapses underneath me. I am now floating in mid air until the arm lets go and I awake in my bed.
Cold sweat drips down my back. Next to me is a naked body, but I can't tell if it's a man or a woman. On the nightstand is an empty condom packet and a cloudy mirror. A few drops of blood have crusted onto it. I slowly stand until my knees give out and I realize the drug is slowly coming to an end.
No longer do I feel invincible, but breakable. Any minute my lungs will collapse and the burning in my gut will make itself known.
I hear sirens, but could care less because this is the moment I was hoping for.
Complete and utter silence.
The dark circles under my eyes seem to intensify as I stumble toward my wall of vinyl and pull out Movin' With Nancy by Nancy Sinatra. The needle drops, while another one is picked up. "Things," her duet with Dean Martin skips to a start and crackles enough to scare me out of my next binge.
Around my ankle is a red bandanna, wrapped tightly around the heel of my high waisted skinny jeans I've had since 1987. Miraculously there aren't too many holes, but the once beautiful blue wash has faded to a marbled gray.
The potency kicks in and suddenly I'm in a wave pool surrounded by overweight Midwesterners bobbing and screaming on their circular inner tubes. One woman calmly lies on top, not a splash on her suit. I can't help but wonder how she got in, since we're both trapped in the middle of the Olympic size watering hole.
In an instance I'm back in my apartment. The last thing I remember was walking toward the kitchen. Now I'm seated in my living room with a half eaten sandwich on my lap watching "Goonies." My attention of the film fades in and out until Sloth screams on camera and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. Like a bad accident I can't look away, but the more I watch the more I slip into the film.
I close my eyes. When they're open I feel myself peddling furiously down a road on a mini-bike. I am Josh Brolin's character, chasing after my little brother. A convertible pulls up and the driver screams out my name but has no face. The female co-stars faces are upside down and their smile is like a runny water color. The driver grabs onto my arm and revs his engine. I am now peddling for my life as the car speeds up, dragging me along. I lift my feet and the bike collapses underneath me. I am now floating in mid air until the arm lets go and I awake in my bed.
Cold sweat drips down my back. Next to me is a naked body, but I can't tell if it's a man or a woman. On the nightstand is an empty condom packet and a cloudy mirror. A few drops of blood have crusted onto it. I slowly stand until my knees give out and I realize the drug is slowly coming to an end.
No longer do I feel invincible, but breakable. Any minute my lungs will collapse and the burning in my gut will make itself known.
I hear sirens, but could care less because this is the moment I was hoping for.
Complete and utter silence.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Flannel
Shuffling through my iPod I was reminded of a different time. "How's it Going to Be" by Third Eye Blind hit the mix and suddenly I was back in my old room watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the WB. My walls were plastered with random film posters and on the floor next to my bed was the screenplay to Scream.
This was a time where anything was possible. Some good, some bad. I remember desperately wanting to fit in with my school mates, so I begged and pleaded for a an electric guitar for my birthday. One of my good friends had just gotten a set of drums and two other classmates bought an electric guitar and one acoustic. It was the idea that we could all ingeniously pick up on these instruments and form a band.
This was the time when Nirvana was cool, and not long after Kurts suicide. When grunge/pop rock was taking over the airwaves. When all we would listen to was Everclear, Green Day and occasionally Alanis Morrissete.
Now all you hear are Euro-dance beats set against an untalented R&B rap producers self proclaimed hip hop group. Or a whiny garble from a group of manicured and packaged "indie" group.
What happened to the anger and the angst? Nothing I hear reminds me of that bittersweet time. When so-called pop rock still sounded edgy.
When groups like Sublime or early No Doubt burst through the WB alienating audiences while also pleasing.
I wish so desperately that I could return to that time, where my biggest problem was mowing the grass on a weekend and getting my parents to drive me over to my friends house so we could strum away at our guitars, off key and out of synch.
Some were better than others with their instruments and eventually my talent for guitar faded out, like my piano playing, but if I could do it all over again I would.
Checked flannel,
combat boots,
where did the music go?
How,
the sound,
will turn around,
somethings were never meant to be explained.
With that she smiles, letting the mascara run down her face. She knew it was the end of it ,but was persistent enough to know that he would never talk to her again. Once her back was turned, he glanced over his shoulder with a hurt look in his eyes. He knew this was the biggest mistake, letting her walk away, but her destiny was greater than he ever would be. So with that he whispered "I'll always love you," and watched her walk off into the sunset, until he was utterly and miserably alone.
This was a time where anything was possible. Some good, some bad. I remember desperately wanting to fit in with my school mates, so I begged and pleaded for a an electric guitar for my birthday. One of my good friends had just gotten a set of drums and two other classmates bought an electric guitar and one acoustic. It was the idea that we could all ingeniously pick up on these instruments and form a band.
This was the time when Nirvana was cool, and not long after Kurts suicide. When grunge/pop rock was taking over the airwaves. When all we would listen to was Everclear, Green Day and occasionally Alanis Morrissete.
Now all you hear are Euro-dance beats set against an untalented R&B rap producers self proclaimed hip hop group. Or a whiny garble from a group of manicured and packaged "indie" group.
What happened to the anger and the angst? Nothing I hear reminds me of that bittersweet time. When so-called pop rock still sounded edgy.
When groups like Sublime or early No Doubt burst through the WB alienating audiences while also pleasing.
I wish so desperately that I could return to that time, where my biggest problem was mowing the grass on a weekend and getting my parents to drive me over to my friends house so we could strum away at our guitars, off key and out of synch.
Some were better than others with their instruments and eventually my talent for guitar faded out, like my piano playing, but if I could do it all over again I would.
Checked flannel,
combat boots,
where did the music go?
How,
the sound,
will turn around,
somethings were never meant to be explained.
With that she smiles, letting the mascara run down her face. She knew it was the end of it ,but was persistent enough to know that he would never talk to her again. Once her back was turned, he glanced over his shoulder with a hurt look in his eyes. He knew this was the biggest mistake, letting her walk away, but her destiny was greater than he ever would be. So with that he whispered "I'll always love you," and watched her walk off into the sunset, until he was utterly and miserably alone.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Earth
If I had to explain it, I'd start with the colors. Not a red nor a black, but a striking yellow room with Purple Mountain Majesty framing it. It's a room, but not the typical cube dimensions. This room is triangular. The floor is sticky, the ceiling is high and clouds float in and out.
If only I were taller, I'd be able to reach the octagon shaped window. So I sit on my bed made from foxes and stare up at it, until the sun goes down. As it does, the typical orangish glow fades and the sky becomes a lime green. This color is reflected through the window until it fills the room. Suddenly I'm surrounded by green light. It fills up like jello rising me toward the ceiling which worries me because the top of this room is made of razor sharp icicles that have only gotten harder as the sun has set.
Closer and closer I rise until I am sucked out the window by a gravitational force and float in an empty black space. I see the green window float farther away until I am amongst the stars and planets. I can't breath and my heart has exploded inside my chest but somehow I'm alive. I continue spinning through out the abyss as a chilly cocoon thickens around me until it swallows me whole.
When I wake, I become claustrophobic, kicking and screaming to escape my isolating prison. I manage to punch a hole through the Styrofoam casing but my hand swells and bleeds. I'm no longer in my room, but on a planet.
A waterfall flows, the grass is the color of my room, and the sky is a blinding blue. I'm not sure what to make of it, but I know wherever I've landed, it's not my home.
If only I were taller, I'd be able to reach the octagon shaped window. So I sit on my bed made from foxes and stare up at it, until the sun goes down. As it does, the typical orangish glow fades and the sky becomes a lime green. This color is reflected through the window until it fills the room. Suddenly I'm surrounded by green light. It fills up like jello rising me toward the ceiling which worries me because the top of this room is made of razor sharp icicles that have only gotten harder as the sun has set.
Closer and closer I rise until I am sucked out the window by a gravitational force and float in an empty black space. I see the green window float farther away until I am amongst the stars and planets. I can't breath and my heart has exploded inside my chest but somehow I'm alive. I continue spinning through out the abyss as a chilly cocoon thickens around me until it swallows me whole.
When I wake, I become claustrophobic, kicking and screaming to escape my isolating prison. I manage to punch a hole through the Styrofoam casing but my hand swells and bleeds. I'm no longer in my room, but on a planet.
A waterfall flows, the grass is the color of my room, and the sky is a blinding blue. I'm not sure what to make of it, but I know wherever I've landed, it's not my home.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Jameson
Sometimes memories become instances, and these instances only happen within a flash. It's like lightning in a bottle. You have to act fast, or the glass will heat and shatter.
In this instance, I had a flash from the first night I tried Jameson. I was with this boy who was incredibly bold and crass. He was like no one I had ever met and somehow made me feel nervous. Every breath I had around him was short because he was so comfortable with himself and his surroundings. When he touched me I shuttered away, but he knew what he was doing. He was a key that kept twisting and turning into a jammed locked and knew eventually it would click and the chains would fall off.
This particular night we traveled away from downtown to karaoke near the college campus. Ironically the shit talking, gay haters didn't frequent this bar. Everyone either had a cigarette or a cocktail in their hand. Or both. The smoke was thick and the crowd was restless but somehow karaoke pulled everyone together.
He was on deck and finished his drink. I was the driver so I was trying to pace myself by drinking slowly. I offered to buy him a drink, with which he replied "Jameson on the rocks." I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but I ordered two hoping to speed the service along so I wouldn't miss his performance.
The bartender slid me two short glasses filled to the brim with whiskey, which I naturally assumed was a mixed drink and I handed it over to my infatuation. He asked what I ordered to which I shyly replied "Same." He let out a surprising laugh until he was called up to sing and I took my first sip. My throat burned and my eyes teared up. My body was rejecting every sip I endured but I did my best not to look stupid and nursed it the rest of the night.
He sang "Mellow Yellow" by Donovan which seemed to be his forte. All eyes were on him, watching his hips sway back and forth in his skinny jeans. Hands wrapping around the microphone so naturally, followed by a few winks thrown to the crowd. It was another moment I would never forget. His voice wasn't the best, but it didn't matter. It was all about the performance, and when you go it, you got it.
He finished and got a rage of applauds from drunk punks and messy hipsters.
It may have only been a few dates in, but it was in that moment that I knew something was happening. The key had turned and the chains hit the ground. Something inside me began pulsating until it took over my entire body.
Later when we kissed, I finally realized what it was.
In this instance, I had a flash from the first night I tried Jameson. I was with this boy who was incredibly bold and crass. He was like no one I had ever met and somehow made me feel nervous. Every breath I had around him was short because he was so comfortable with himself and his surroundings. When he touched me I shuttered away, but he knew what he was doing. He was a key that kept twisting and turning into a jammed locked and knew eventually it would click and the chains would fall off.
This particular night we traveled away from downtown to karaoke near the college campus. Ironically the shit talking, gay haters didn't frequent this bar. Everyone either had a cigarette or a cocktail in their hand. Or both. The smoke was thick and the crowd was restless but somehow karaoke pulled everyone together.
He was on deck and finished his drink. I was the driver so I was trying to pace myself by drinking slowly. I offered to buy him a drink, with which he replied "Jameson on the rocks." I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but I ordered two hoping to speed the service along so I wouldn't miss his performance.
The bartender slid me two short glasses filled to the brim with whiskey, which I naturally assumed was a mixed drink and I handed it over to my infatuation. He asked what I ordered to which I shyly replied "Same." He let out a surprising laugh until he was called up to sing and I took my first sip. My throat burned and my eyes teared up. My body was rejecting every sip I endured but I did my best not to look stupid and nursed it the rest of the night.
He sang "Mellow Yellow" by Donovan which seemed to be his forte. All eyes were on him, watching his hips sway back and forth in his skinny jeans. Hands wrapping around the microphone so naturally, followed by a few winks thrown to the crowd. It was another moment I would never forget. His voice wasn't the best, but it didn't matter. It was all about the performance, and when you go it, you got it.
He finished and got a rage of applauds from drunk punks and messy hipsters.
It may have only been a few dates in, but it was in that moment that I knew something was happening. The key had turned and the chains hit the ground. Something inside me began pulsating until it took over my entire body.
Later when we kissed, I finally realized what it was.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Fag
The sun is shadowed by the trees. I see their silhouettes while I listen to my parents argue. My dad gets into his car and lays on the horn. My mom, ever so unorganized, rushes out from our house dropping her purse. My father throws his hands up while I remain fixed on the sky. My mother literally snaps me back to reality by flicking her fingers near the tip of my nose. “Stop staring, you’ll strain your eyes.” When I look at her, the entire back of her head is backlit. I hear her voice but don’t see her face. My dad honks again. “For Christ’s sake” she mumbles holding up a finger, signaling for him to wait. “You know your father” she says. Suddenly her face is clear and comes back in focus. I step in front of her. “Mom!” Dad honks again. “Honey, please.” She side steps, avoiding the entire conversation and gets in the car. She waves, as they drive off. “Your sons a fag.”
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Psycho Beach Party
In a dense, narrow room, I see the velvet rope. What’s on the other side isn’t given, it’s earned, But I refuse to contract my soul. Many have fallen, Most have tried, It’s the wise ones who perceive the lies. We leave the scene, Never to return, And live a satisfied life, With loved ones by our side. You can have those bright lights, And flashy nights, Cuz I’ll be with my man tonight. It may sound vain and inhumane, But love heals dignity and density, And what I’ve been fighting all my life, Is to learn what’s right. To dismiss all the negative energy, Befriend the wicked, Ignore bad intentions, And be your own flame In a candelabrum of light.
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