When cloven-hoofprints turn up in the garden, we keep up the good fight...
This is how Tuesday went, since I think it'll be one of those days that gets talked about in the future.
I was having the kind of day at work so bad that even quitting my job wouldn't have worked -- the kind of day where the usually dark Satanic mills are bathed in the eerie light of misanthropy. The light of misanthropy is even worse than fluorescents, girls; no foundation on earth can stave off the washout.
Those of you who have the grace and decency to IM me at work know this. Then again, most of you were being haunted by the same spirits.
Dude: it was like The Database Record of Dorian Grey. They pleased and thank-youd, but investigating their history on St**m brought the pernicious to light. Everybody I talked to had some inexplicable problem which they pulled out of thin air just as I thought the call was about to end. One guy just needed me to explain how earnings were distributed -- I talked him through re-installation. Twice.
So I called MG and begged him to go to the M**nt**n G**ts show in C*mbr*dg*. I got whiny about it, I'm afraid. But MG is fond of the MGs, and anyway, it's not hard to get him into a room packed to the gills with beautiful indie-boys. They're particularly pretty this time of year, in their new vintage wool foliage. I walked down into C*ntr*l Sq**r* and had dinner at Gh*nd* [sic]. Showed up at the concert real early, but my ticket had already been bought online . . . my shoulders were already pulling out of pretzel, but I did have to have my anti-scenester shields up.
I have a chip (on these very shoulder, even!) about indie scenes. Perhaps the best way to sum it up is that I have a lot in common with the rest of us, but for completely different reasons to everybody else's. The flaw in this description is that this is precisely what everybody else in the scene might say about it. Moreover, I don't feel as pretty as them, I'm sure that my record collection couldn't beat up theirs, and, let's face it, my fans don't love me for my social skills.
MG and I sidle up to the bar, swipe a seat from the blue haired guy when he goes to the john (sorry, sir), and settle in for the long haul. J*hn fucking D*rn**ll* sits down next to MG during J*hn V*nd*rsl*c*'s set and smokes marlboros. It's crowded enough in TT's that, as he tries to get past on his way to the stage, JD TOUCHED MY ASS. I will never wash my ass again.
At that point, the sprinkler system could have gone on, rabid piranhas could have filled the rapidly-flooding club, my gonads and toes could have been torn off by millions of tiny fishy teeth and I still would have had a great time. Stranger than strange, though -- a really beautiful guy just talked to me, in the pause between two songs. There's unfortunately no follow-up to that, but sw*lk*s says to post an "I saw you! I want to have your babies!" ad in the Ph**n*x (not her exact words). It might just be worth it, although I can't imagine those really work.