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Scenes from my Real Life:
Aug. 3rd, 2014 03:34 amHit 80's Night of the Living Dead with my occasional dancing partner in crime, The Princess. We burned a joint on the way and did our best not to run anyone over in the Toco Hills area. 80s Night of the Living Dead was in a strip mall, next door to a Ju-Jitsu studio, all way in the back of a sports bar packed with sad mullet men crowding the pool tables who watched the Princess with open want and me with open wonder by my proximity to her. She was rocking her Joann Jett by way of Mad Max look. I did a standard issue jeans and a black t-shirt proclaiming 'Unknown Pleasures' which is more than a must have album but an open statement on the state of my love life at the moment. The scene was decently packed. Plenty of le Morts Vivants pacing tables along with bars in torn fishnets and dry blood. Up at the bar that time forgot, I managed to flag us down some drink. The Princess did her usual sugar free Red Bull with lime and I went for a Jameson's on the rocks. From there, there was nothing for us to do but laugh and dance, dance and laugh.
In the course of the evening I can report watching a very cute Rainbow Brite work the floor with some moves, a guy with his pants lit up with Christmas lights get down with Rave Tranny 2000, some lovely poor chemical-casualty dance bare breasted in caped hood, along with some dude who looked like fat David Lynch hover behind us ominously watching along with us.
In the course of the evening I made small talk with some old friends from back in the night when I worked the club circuit under the alias DJ FloorKiller. The only embarrassing part for me was seeing my Internet crush dancing a few feet away from me during 'Assimilate'. I recognized her right away. A tall glass of water with a smile that tells you it's always half-full, the movie star face and the shoulder length hair veiling the back of a neck my kisses have long dreamed of. Shouting her name jubilantly, I approached with arms widened for hug and asked why she wasn't in Tennessee.
A shift in the dancefloor lights and the look of confused horror they revealed however told me this wasn't her. Well, you can take the fuck-up artist out of the disco but not the disco out of the fuck-up artist. Without missing a beat, literally I'd like to think, I bowed my apologies to the poor lass and synched back into the thrashing danse macabre that makes me such a glorious hazard to behold.
Back now, bowl packed and a small voice of common sense telling me not to rewrite all the work I've done today opting instead for a few more episodes of Night Vale to sooth me into empty night #1,099.
Oh Goddess and Baby Buddha above, whenever you see fit to deliver me free from love's purgatory, please let the next longshot you send my way be a woman of mirth and dance.
In the course of the evening I can report watching a very cute Rainbow Brite work the floor with some moves, a guy with his pants lit up with Christmas lights get down with Rave Tranny 2000, some lovely poor chemical-casualty dance bare breasted in caped hood, along with some dude who looked like fat David Lynch hover behind us ominously watching along with us.
In the course of the evening I made small talk with some old friends from back in the night when I worked the club circuit under the alias DJ FloorKiller. The only embarrassing part for me was seeing my Internet crush dancing a few feet away from me during 'Assimilate'. I recognized her right away. A tall glass of water with a smile that tells you it's always half-full, the movie star face and the shoulder length hair veiling the back of a neck my kisses have long dreamed of. Shouting her name jubilantly, I approached with arms widened for hug and asked why she wasn't in Tennessee.
A shift in the dancefloor lights and the look of confused horror they revealed however told me this wasn't her. Well, you can take the fuck-up artist out of the disco but not the disco out of the fuck-up artist. Without missing a beat, literally I'd like to think, I bowed my apologies to the poor lass and synched back into the thrashing danse macabre that makes me such a glorious hazard to behold.
Back now, bowl packed and a small voice of common sense telling me not to rewrite all the work I've done today opting instead for a few more episodes of Night Vale to sooth me into empty night #1,099.
Oh Goddess and Baby Buddha above, whenever you see fit to deliver me free from love's purgatory, please let the next longshot you send my way be a woman of mirth and dance.
