Monday, February 28, 2005
Gnats, Rashes, and Malaria
I didn't last very long. I drank several weak vodka tonics during happy hour. I wanted to sit back, relax, and wait for the show. I couldn't because there was nowhere to sit, so I was stuck rocking back and forth on my heels like a heroin fiend. I learned that my friend's performance was not due until 1 am. Three hours away. I can tell you with certitude that an expensive nightclub is no place for a man without money. A poor man will burn with shame as he drinks every sip of alcohol that is pityingly thrown his way. He will feel like a dog licking a deceased homeless man's dried vomit.
Yes, that would be me. There is no point explaining ridiculous car breakdowns and roommate job losses. I'll just sound silly. A true no-win situation. All I can do is sit there, broke and restless. Invariably somebody will notice that Steve, world renowned alcoholic, is standing mute and still during her toast. How exhausting. I must leave before people start giving me beer that's gone warm.
Shortly after 10pm a strange man wandered into the bathroom with his luggage. He set up station on the sink counter. He was selling Newports, Camels, mints, and cologne. He distributed paper towels for club patrons to dry their hands. Tipping a bartender or waitress is customary, a polite thing to do. I have no problem with this. I will not pay a man to count stalls and point me to my designated urination portal. This is obscenity. It is going overboard. I mumbled my way past his beseeching outstretched hands. I know where they've been.
My ride decided to leave early and skip the show. Mercy hallelujah. I seized upon this notion and encouraged fleeing with desperate urgency. We did.
If somebody tells you that money is not needed to have fun, agree and quickly invite them to join you at home. Because it certainly can't be done in public.
I got back to my car and quickly zipped to the nearest gas station. The station was a BP at Kedzie & Elston, and the pumps were little kiosks attached to the four corners of the little building. I had to pull up diagonally against the concrete abutment to refuel my mangy red intrepid. Truly odd. I bought a cheap bag of salted peanuts and drove home along a mostly deserted Irving Park Road. I used my passenger seat for the shells. I got home, opened the car door, and stood up. Shell fibers and dusty salt granuoles flew off me, carried into the night by a silent gust of wind. Very anitclimactic.
Fortunately Saturday night would prove to be far more exciting. 6:34 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
Low Brow Standard Bearers Unite
A Glancing Blow
Rest In Peace, Doctor
How's My Driving?
Now I Can Whistle
Fast Food Means Fast Digestion
Newports and Milkbones