*This post has been liberated from draft mode and speaks to events that occured on or near 7/29/04 - 8/1/04*
Fizzie and I did the typical Thursday overindulging. Same bat time, same bat location. In some ways, we might be a little too well matched on the hanging front. Our typical pre-fun convos sound a little like a Pinky and The Brain episode: "So, dude, what are we up to tonight?" "The same thing we're up to whenever we hang out: get some fucking drinks!" Though, I got dragged over the line that night when he uttered the six words I'm beginning to dread: "Let me open up a tab." I, the professional, paced myself after a deep breath and Fizzie plowed through them. He ended up so super social that our boy the bartender cut him off and the bouncer shook his head in amusement as we walked off. I convinced us to get some Turkish food on Houston and he waited by sitting face down at the table. He didn't have to twist my arm too much to convince me to crash at his place which was infinitely closer to work in a little under 5 hours than home, still an hour away.
I woke up in a panic at 9:30, a.k.a fucking late, and walked around screaming "fuck! fuck! fuck!" as Fizzie did an impression of a log. I tried in vain to convince him to get up, but after a while let him be and went to work in a panic. I think the rushing and semi-hysteria burned off the hungover cobwebs because work wasn't that painful and my brain on ultrafocus mode. I settled myself into nice groove in my two-two-two-jobs-in-one mode and left there without wanting to scream for a switch. I also went straight to bed without passing go and didn't even feel (too) ashamed about it.
I celebrated a good night's sleep and nice outside weather the next day but putting out a skirt (don't gasp too hard -- it was of the poof 1950's housewife variety that I've had for about 2 years now) and my new shoes to go traipse around P.S. 1. I'd only been there once before with TrendVickster back in the day when I convinced her to check it out and we were turned off the pre-hipster painfully "cool" atmosphere. I'd vowed then to never return and I was good on that promise until I found myself with thousands of flyers to get rid of and vaguely curious about what were these Scissor Sisters everyone was talking about.
Off I traipsed to Long Island City and as I do with every new neighborhood in a nice location, also scouted out some real estate. I was really into the brownstone places a block or so past the place and made a mental note to look the place up in the listings when I got home. (I'm so in love with this place I can barely stand it!) I waited on the long ass line, paid my $8, and remembered to always trust my impressions. Oh, the Scissor Sisters: Elton John's voice in Terry Hall circa Fun Boy Three fronting Wham circa 1983 with Bathhouse-era Bette Midler doing co-vocals and banter. Double plus gay. Gayer than the Pride Parade. The songs are catchy but bad sound and the overpowering urge to beat skinny rude hipsters down and the fact that wood bottomed shoes don't yield for shit had me annoyed. Saw some Wes folks (surprise, surprise), didn't see Bono which is a shock since I walked around that place at least 100 times during the course of the day -- then again, I didn't see Mac either, so perhaps I'm just blind. Totally possible. I did give an honest review to a friend of theirs in line and he was all "well, the sound sucked. They've been better" and get pissed off when a couple had some "quality" time in the bathroom room when I was next on line and had to pee really bad. Fuckers.
Post-show, I went home and took a damned nap because I was worth it before changing into jeans and sneaks to hang with Fizzie. He had just gained a new roomie, K, and I went over to meet and greet. All the moving and such had tired her out, so Fizzie and I went off into the night with her friend, H. That girl was a hell of a character. She enlightened me to her theory of dating musicians: their first love is music, so they're looking for a woman who can be the embodiment of that "spirit," for how long depending on their attention spans and the like. So, every time they're with a woman, it's like being at the shrine of Music, bowing down to the goddess. Interesting, eh? We strolled down to Rothko and I ran into a Blng Kong cheerleader and got a new button. Yay! Then we were off to Chinatown and the always criminally empty 169 Bar before heading our seperate ways.
I made the mistake of hanging with Farmer and his sniffer friends and alternated between livid and sad the next day. I stopped in the Duane Reade on Delancey on the way to Man Man show # 874 at the Mercury Lounge and discovered that the cashier only had $5s, $1s, and nickels because the place had been jacked and the manager maced (!) not 5 minutes before I got there. Fucking wild. My mood hadn't improved when I got to the show and I spent my time either on the phone or really hiding in the dark. You know it was great. I don't have to say it. The most amazing part of every show is the "WTF is going on?" expression people get on their faces. This one guy was so excited that he bought the EP and was all "you guys are awesome!" to the extreme. I was that guy. I am that guy. There's something nice about just being a non-cynical fan for a change. (There's a slightly funny other story connected to the show. I'll tell it to you off blog if you ask nicely.) I was just hanging out and caught the acoustic set of the guy that came afterwards -- I swear his name on the Mercury site is just wrong but he was awesome with just voice and guitar. On hand were the Trachtenbergs to support their friend. The music, however lovely, was sad and after awhile, I wanted to run off and jump on the J and cry or something. I ended up chatting with Ryan and Tom Man Man out front and Tom was amused by my Man Man shirt and my deadpan Dariaesque statement of fact that I'm always at the shows. I mean, sheesh, I'm the shill. Where else would I be? Granted, I don't do full out plant in the crowd "this is the most awesome band ever! woo!" like I did for Alex and the guys in DC back in the day, but I'm singlehandedly keeping the black girl population in the crowd to at least 1. It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it.
Posted by Candicissima at August 14, 2004 06:35 PM