June 26, 2006

The Deets

Is it seriously almost July? June has been a strange, short month for me. I've been preoccupied with all sorts of typical stresses - money (or the lack thereof), love (or the lack thereof), family, friends, job, job, job... I've also been doing a bit of jet-setting, which sounds a lot cooler than it really is.

So far, I've been to Philly, New York, back to Seattle, to Eastern Washington, to New York again, and I'm currently in D.C. until Tuesday. All told, I will have spent, like, 2 weeks actually sleeping at my house this month. Which DOUBLES the injustice of rent -- now not only am I flushing money down the toilet to sleep in a place I don't own, I'm also flushing it NOT to sleep there. Fuck.

Anyway, as promised:

1. I guess I dislike fat kids.


I know it's terrible, but I can't help it. I sat next to a fat little girl on the plane on my way home from NY a few days ago. At first glance, I presumed she was somewhere in the 16-19 age range. My suspicions were aroused, however, when the flight attendants began to coddle her to no end, telling her not to be afraid, handing her those wing pins, calling her sweetie, explaining the safety procedures of the plane.

She didn't look special, so I figured she must be lots younger than I thought. And she was. She was 9 years old. And had bigger breasts than me.

Frightening. On top of the fact that she was quite large, she did things that fat kids do that annoy me. Mainly, she was a mouth-breather, a snorer, an armrest hogger, a seat-squisher, a whiner, a stare-er, a mouth-smacker, a messy eater and a "No, I want the WHOLE CAN"-asker. And as much as I tried not to, I sat there on that plane and the whole time I secrety fumed about her.

Something about her almost offended me. I know it's probably not her fault she's a fat kid, so I feel terrible that I so vehemently disliked her for it. It's just that kids aren't SUPPOSED to be fat! I wanted to grab her chubby little shoulders and shake her while yelling "GO TO THE PARK! PLAY A SPORT! YOU'RE WASTING YOUR LIFE AND YOUR HEALTH AND YOU'RE SPITTING CRUMBS ALL OVER ME AND WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP SNORING, GODDAMNIT! KNOCK IT OFF!!!"

I'm going to be an awesome mother.

Especially since I'll probably be punished by spawning ridiculously, inexplicably, fat children who don't like sports, preferring, instead, to watch "Divorce Court" and eat donughts.

...

So have I offended ALL of you, or is someone still with me, here?
Very sorry for that. Let's move on.

2. Tom Petty is OLD.


Well, he is. I know this because I went to Tom Petty at Madison Square Garden on Tuesday. Good show, I think. (The Budweiser haze makes it a bit difficult to remember exactly, but I think I smiled and clapped a lot, so...). But he still has very young fans, most of whom populated the concert.

I cannot explain this. All I can say is thank GOD kids these days are listening to something besides Chingy and Ja Rule. For a minute there, I was worried. Smoke all the pot you want, hippie children, as long as it keeps you from saying "bling bling" and "keeping it gangsta". There's nothing worse than a 15 year old white kid from the 'burbs rapping like Nelly. Well, except Nelly rapping like Nelly.

2.5. I do NOT look like Stevie Nicks.


She made an appearance at Tom's concert, singing a number of his songs with him. This was very cool. But it drudged up an old, painful memory that had me compulsively loooking in mirrors and searching the Web for a pretty picture of Stevie Nicks for the rest of the weekend:

An ex once told me, early on in our relationship, that I resembled Stevie Nicks. He really knew how to romance a lady, let me tell you. I mean, I may have just had a birthday, but I don't have crow's feet yet. (Though I did spot my first spider vein...) Not only is she not that pretty, we just really don't look that much alike. I know you don't have a picture of me (except the super-cropped one above) to compare to, but trust me, I don't look like her.

3. I love gay bars.

I went to the Tom Petty concert with a couple guys I work with, as we were all in NY for business together. Following the concert, full of Budweiser and bravado, they insisted that we go get another frosty beverage to properly cap off the night. I suggested we walk back towards our hotels, stopping at an Irish pub on the way, but oh, no -- they insisted we had to go to a NY bar with a name. Somewhere hip, happening...

Bowery Bar.

Though I was really ready for a nice long night in my heavenly 4-star hotel bed, they insisted, saying they'd been once and had determined it to be "awesome". Bowery it was. We hailed a cab and rode 10 minutes out to the spot, where we got in line to enter. When we finally made our way to the front, the bouncer made some remark about me being smart to bring two men with me, saying it saved me a cover charge. I didn't get it, but three minutes later, when we were winding our ways to the back of the bar and I looked up to see three writhing, muscled men in whitey tighties dancing on tables in the windows, it hit me:

My preppy little companions had unwittingly chosen to patronize B on gay night - a night that, at Bowrey, they call "Beige".

They made a beeline for the bathrooms, leaving me propped, bemused and buzzed, on a couch with a full view of my surroundings. As I expected, they returned from the bathroom a matter of moments later, stammering something about having to go, being tired, etc. My preppy little companions were uncomfortable about being at a gay bar. So comfortable, in fact, that the comedy of the situation was entirely muffled as I attempted to retain some shred of professionalism while pretending not to notice their incredible homophobia.

But as they scurried out, leaving me to enjoy a drink alone before following suit, I couldn't help but chuckle.

I did end up staying for a drink, and here's what I can tell you about my new take on gay men: while I've always had a gay friend or two, and only half of the time do they make fabulous shopping buddies, dance partners and creme brulee, this was the first time I'd ever been in a full-on gay bar. And I have to say: it was FANTASTIC!

I wasn't groped, asked for my email address (I am, inexplicably, a geek-magnet), or called "sweetie", "cutie" or "sexy" once. I never felt safer in a strange bar in a city far from home. Also, I overheard this awesome exchange:

Gay, fashionable dude wearing adorable seersucker suit: "Do you like this seersucker suit? I couldn't decide between blue and green, so I got one piece in each color. I LOVE seersucker in the summer!"
Super-gay counterpart: "Seersucker? More like queerfucker!"

While I can't speak for my colleagues, I will be back. Well done, Bowerey. Gay night on with your bad, beefy boy toys!

4. It really matters, at a concert, who opens up for whom.


I went to a PSAPP and Jose Gonzalez concert in Seattle last week, which was perhaps the worst idea ever. While PSAPP was rad, wickedly funny and basically a great show (as expected -- I've pimped them here before and will continue to do so until they become as famous as the deserve), they were followed (and therefore Jose was preceded) by a woman called Juana Molina.

Who plays folk/electronica/world music born of Buenos Aires but made famous in Argentina. As she played, she recorded, looped and played over her own guitar riffs and vocals, which were really stunning.

But.

I appreciate her musicality and her artistry and all that, but we were standing, on a Monday night, amongst a thousand other hot people in a warehouse waiting to hear Jose Gonzales (after a rocking PSAPP set), and we had to listen to her same woozy, otherworldly coma-music for nearly an HOUR. By the time it was over, it was after midnight. I left before Jose even came on because I was so frustrated. And when I got to my car, my left headlight was out.

It was a shitty night, and I missed a headliner because some tour organizer didn't do their research on the order in which to schedule their opening acts. AND I paid for 3 tickets, so two of my friends (who have slightly more tame/sane tastes in music) would come, which means I left that place 60 bucks poorer with a bad attitude, sore feet, and a broken car. Awesome.

There IS a silver lining: I felt guilty enough for leaving (which I really don't believe in) that I actually gave Molina a second try and have decided that if you were writing, sleeping or chilling (or on drugs) she'd be perfect. Mood music, plus it's in Spanish, plus her voice is really incredible. When it's not being incredibly boring because it's holding up your entire evening.

So how's that for a raving review?


5. I got trapped in a fire escape on my way to the airport.

That's basically the story. In an attempt to go up to the secure 25th floor of my building at 6 in the morning to retrieve my phone charger for my trip to NY, I realized my security key card didn't work. Thinking I'd outsmart the system (as I've done countless times before), I decided to go to the unsecured 24th floor, then use their fire escape to climb to my floor, where I'd snatch my charger and race down to the street level to catch my impatient (and sleepy) ride to the airport.

Well it turned out that this time, in a cruel twist of fate, the 25th floor fire escape was locked. Which I discovered shortly after hearing the 24th floor escape door click locked behind me. So, in heels, carrying probably 100 lbs of luggage and without cell phone reception (which I discovered when I tried to frantically send out a mass-text message to all my friends which said "I AM TRAPPED IN A FIRE ESCAPE. DO YOU THINK THERE ARE CAMERAS HERE? I HAVE TO PEE. HELP."), I got to climb down 24 flights of stairs as fast as I could.

It reminded me of that Will and Grace episode when they get stuck climbing like 30 flights of stairs with a birthday cake because one of the characters is afraid of elevators. Pure comedy.

Once I finally got to the bottom, my arms were so tired they were numb, my legs were like noodles on stillettos, and I was dripping in sweat and out of breath. And in that condition I had to ask the security guard to escort me back up to the 25th floor to recover my charger. It was humiliating, but also so very funny that I couldn't even be pissed. I seriously just sweated and giggled for about 30 minutes after.

The anger came later, when my quads were so sore from the climb that I couldn't touch them and peeing was a free-fall to the toilet. But that's probably enough detail, no?

1 comment:

auntiegrav said...

Fat kids: Ahhyyup.
You don't look like Stevie Nicks. Love is in the eye of the beholder. You are attractive, your friend had a fantasy about Stevie Nicks, and Voila! He saw a resemblance only in his mind. Happens to me all the time. Good looking women look like other good looking women. The differences only show up when they open their mouth. That is, if they have something useful to say, or else they get put back in the herd in the back of my mind. Same thing with fat people, jocks, or other stereotypical attributes. Call it pseudopsychiatry, but that's what happens in my brain. I look for the unique to be able to remember things.