"I'll strangle you and fuck you up the rectum, How gay is that? That's right, I've got 7 inches!"...spoken to John, Bartender at Liquor Lyles by The boy I served
last night who is never coming back.
Who the hell was that guy? I'll have to ask Rick, our regular mich golden draft lite and red-headed slut at Liquor Lyles. He was about 5'9'' with neck tattoos and some on his chest, which I found out when he took off his shirt in preparation to fight at about 2 minutes to 2 am on the bar clock. I was sitting at the bar, smoking ban lifted and coffee, sweet and boozy in my hand. Guess I shouldn't have told him to get out of the place, told him there was no bet cause he had no money, told him he obviously didn't get enough pussy after he told me to go get some:
"Butch, grow some hair!"
And despite the 911 I had dialed into my phone with right hand ready to hit "send," I was biting my left baby finger in order to keep from laughing because after all, he did 88 months.... in Iowa.
So, that was the perfect ending to a slow night at work and sweet April picked me up and made sure I got home safe and sound and today I think I'll pick up that mase and holster, special ordered froom the army surplus store downtown, and maybe I'll work on clearing up the confusion that seems to result every time I'm really fucking happy... It's not to say that happiness doesn't confuse me equally as much as it confuses those around me but for whatever reason people either hate the confrontation that that is presented by those who are truly happy, or assume that there must be foul play at hand... possibly heavy drug use. Sorry folks, hate to disappoint. I'm just really fucking happy.
Can I say happy again? HAPPY.
[That said, I neither condone or condem recreational or spiritual drug use. Basically, it's up to you...just read the warning label first.]
Leave Chicago this afternoon.
Back to Mpls.
Might be in love with the city or JR or all of the comfortable couches I slept on.
Recommendations:
Soul Vegetarian East on the South side...
(all vegan, all soul food, all good)
Alcala's Western Wear
(over 10,000 pairs of boots)
1733 W. Chicago Ave.
(I got a belt buckle with a REAL SPIDER in it here!)
Sometimes it's like the days were made just perfectly for the sole purpose of enjoyment. Woke up this morning to traffic on an orange and black couch in the livingroom of two fabulous men. The sunlight striking the building accross the way made a burnt orange color, perfectly coordinated with the couch cushions beneath me. 7:44 am. And I'm up. Senseless considering the half bottle of wine, cognac and 3 margaritas I drank last night. But up and wearing lenseless aviator frames and listening to Joan of Arc. JR says he likes Joan of Arc and miraculously he is up too. Showering now, sick with the "Flu."
METRIC was great last night, in the way that the members of the band all stood around and made nice after the show. They sounded good too and sweet blond vocal enthusiast thrashed around on the stage, robotic dance moves and hair spins, keeping me smiling and dancing around just enough to bump into the fellow next to me 3 or 4 times. This is a good sign.
Chicago is awesome.
OR
it may be the people I have been fortunate enough to be introduced to.
Funny how good people can make or break just about anything, rainy day or not.
So last night's entertainment was provided by the empty bottle, tequilla and FOG. This Mpls band didn't sound the way I thought they would and JH appropriately likened them to the dismemberment plan years ago.
The tequilla however, was awesome and the brick walls and photo booth were the missing puzzle pieces found under the edge of the couch just in time to complete the picture before grandma has to go to bed.
Picture Puuurfect. (thank you miss princess boom boom, you helped too.)
And thank you Jill for the delicious margarita, (I recommend you all try soda instead of sour next time you're feeling like a fiesta.) And thank you JR for being the perfect balance of a man. And thank you Miles for your hair and your glasses and your boots and your ripped jeans and your white t-shirt and you're good nature...
Not everyone can handle a modern art sculpture spontaniously appearing on their bed.
Oh, and thank you JH. (alot alot alot alot. for too many things.)
So, I'm in Fargo and I'm at this bar, my friend Duster's favorite watering hole and I'm making the rounds, friends, enemies, conversation, sizing the place up, trying to get my fill of Fargo and feel it out... and I've already got a boy who hates me, it's his birthday and I bought him a drink, but it doesn't matter and he keeps calling me a bitch. Tom, he's my favorite member of the crowd and he's 22 and wearing a sweater, which I comment on: it's his sister's. He borrowed it. It's red and fits him and his radiant feminine side perfectly. So I tell Tom to come with me, back to Duster's house: we leave him there and I borrow his keys because he said he likes hip-hop and asop rock and I tell him he's got to listen to this guy from the twin cities, P.O.S.. And so, we get to the apartment and I put the head-phones on his head and he likes it. Asks if the guy is black or white, I say "black, but he runs with lots of white kids" cause Tom thinks he sounds white. And so that conversation ends and we're on the porch and I'm smoking a Marlboro menthol and Tom is telling me he lives in golden valley for a year and went to an art school and I say really, when? Did you know a guy named Stef? "Yeah, he pierced my tongue before they kicked him off campus for piercing so many kids, he was cool." -- "Yeah," I say "meet P.O.S.."
Only in the midwest.
so now that it's been so long and the people have stopped listening there is new found glory and meaning in the sound of the keys clicking and the click of the mouse sending the words out into space to float around with the rest of the mess and most-likely remain unread.