Kitty Power

I Know You’re Hot, But Won’t You Please Be Cool

I think I’ve lost the urge to write a real structured post. I’m just going to be like Hani and throw whatever sticks down.
The longest work week ever stretched on and on and on. As quickly as Farmer reappeared, he vanished back to a leisurely life I can only wish for. He’s good for shaking me up when I’m feeling hardcore and closed off. He’s my boy and he tugs those heartstrings I forgot existed. But, we’re getting better in our old age because we’re leaving the drama by the wayside. All things pass.
I spent the weekdays all sleep deprived and grouchy, but emerged all butterfly-like Friday night. I sorta combed my hair! I wore something besides a big sweater/sweatshirt! I put on a belt! You know, all those things I don’t do for the office. I felt like playing wino but wandered out the house too late to bottle it. The bus/train combo moved in slow motion and I found myself at Essex circa 1am, unable to decide if I already wanted to call it a night.
Instead, I bounced to Starfoods and marveled at what a difference a year makes. Woo…old school jams! “Candy Rain!” “Dope!” That’d be nice if those songs weren’t played out and I actually wasn’t sick of partying like it was the early/mid-90s. I’m over the nostaglia train. Where the fuck does a girl have to go to hear some modern house/glitch on a Friday night? Throw on some Tiga! Give me a Tiefschwarz remix! That’s my new phase. I considered how I wanted a real electro party — the music fused with a Francopolozza/Monday nights at Sapph/Shelter vibe, in other words, non-rhythm having, non-dancing fuckers crowding the space need not enter — and then I remembered how this is NYC and people don’t really dance, they just pretend to while making sure everyone else is watching. And then I was sad.
Cheap drinks at Sapph and then to my new Friday party…I guess. I was wandering about aimlessly until I wondered to myself, “is that the DJ guy I see over there? Is it? Oh, it is…nice.” What I forgot to blog a month ago was Alex giving me a kick in the ass (through threats and potential embarassment) to stop being a punk and just talk to him. It was painless and I was newly excited afterwards. Alas, I stopped caring from a week after that until I saw him again Friday. Out of sight, out of mind. I truly don’t care enough to keep the interest level going on no returns. In my mind, I was out of commission. Behind the scenes, minus the Farmer interlude, I’m pretty much got everything I want at this moment in time.
Still, he came over and we yammered. Have you ever just been fascinated by a person? All I could think was: “you’re so cute yet so strange. I can’t decide if it makes me like you more or want to make fun of you.” Then again, I’m an asshole, so I always think that. His friend joined the party and I yammered with him. I tried to convert the friend to both the Zen and Unclassics. They jockeyed for position and I hoped they weren’t going to come out with something ridiculous because my reply would’ve been: “honestly, neither of you have a chance in hell. Currently preoccupied. Thanks for playing though.”
And the DJ played my most favorite song: Bugz In The Attic, “Booty (La La)” and I danced felt like maybe there was hope for going out after all. I hung with them from the Bowery to the road until I took my exit at 14th for the F. I had an erm, lively adventure with some teenage guys on the bus who took my tired curses as playing hard to get and wondered what kind of fucking pheremones I was sending out to get the stares/comments in full force. Disinterest. The hot new scent.
More of the same Saturday night. Bizarro male interactions and me wavering between bemused, disbelieving, and “if I ignore it, it’ll go away” mode. Somewhere in there, caught Man Man show #5690 and wondered if there was some rule in effect last week that the pre-headliner acts at shows had to be utter shit. This group was like The Go-Go’s minus that pesky instrument playing. They suck. Headliner was meh. I had more fun drinking. Woodpecker on tap rules! I can have the pretense of drinking piss like everyone else, but know that I’m not succumbing — plus drinks that size are way more cost-effective than mixed drinks, even if they lack the kick. I strolled away from the madness early for me and went home blissfully alone.
I saved the fun for the Pseudo on the Sunday reunion. It’s just better that way.

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