Thursday, January 29, 2009

devil may care

friday morning: discuss.

woke up to more passive aggressive post its on the fridge after drunkenly demolishing my roommate's leftover pizza last night when I got home from an evening about town that smacked of my trite and exorbitant first year in town as dj motley c. I suppose that's what I should expect from cruising around to hipster bars to flyer for a band called the downer party in a car full of barely legal dudes in leather jackets driven by a 19 year old girl with a sonic youth tattoo who I didn't care to ask how many sparks she'd had. nice kids, admittedly, one of them being max scoville, who has barely begun his excellent san francisco adventure... and it's fascinating to see that the kids are indeed alright, but they're still doing the same old shit. somehow I became the docent of my own milestone memory tour, passing the crunk station, the marrakesh joint in the tl, the old arrow (cum matador), the thursday night beat poet society at 16th bart, delirium, 330 ritch, and finally, the rickshaw. looking askance at its menacing orange door, I knew it was time for grandma to go home-- I don't play that game anymore. as much as some things never change, I'm no longer dolled up to get a photographer's attention for my 2 minutes of myspace bulletin fame, I don't have room for your glossy 4x6's in my purse, and the drug dealer is not invited to my afterparty. motley c and the girl gang formerly known as 3P is finally dead.

I'll never forget this blurry exchange from a couple of halloweens ago, spun out on god knows what and dressed up as an electro ladybug. sometime around 4 in the morning I passed stefan who was laying on the floor in a hallway of the warehouse with his head and shoulder propped up on the wall at an unnatural angle, drenched in sweat so that his dyed black bangs were slick and plastered across his furrowed forehead, wearing a dress shirt that could have benefitted from a proper wringing. I'd stopped and knelt down beside him, trying to heft his dead weight up into a posture that might do a double service in being more comfortable and also making him look less like a wasted burnout.

"what are you doing still here?" he asked.

"party goes 'til 6." I replied.

"getting your twenty bucks worth?"

"I was on the list."

"smart ass."

"what? I was!"

"no, I mean, what are you doing... still here." he widened his eyes dramatically as he asked. "because you need to get out."

"I am not sure I follow." I could feel my stomach lurching, full of pills and some acerbic alcoholic concoction.

"you know," stefan snorted, a signature character tic, "you know why I was such a dick to you when you first came around?"

"because you're an asshole?" I smiled sardonically.

"yeah, and also because I know you're too good for this. you're wasting yourself on this. take a look and tell me what you see." a rivulet of sweat streamed down his pallid cheek, his face stern. "I see the same old people doing the same shit. I'm 38, and I know, I know what they've already taken from you, but it's not too late. these people are vampires."

we sat there, locked in a stare that felt an eternity long with our dilated pupils boring into each other.

"I'll go when I'm ready." I said, incapable of mendacity.

"he's not coming back, and you won't either. look, I'm sorry. I don't want to see you around anymore, and I mean that in the best way possible."

"I know. but for a second there I thought you were just being a dick again."

I stood up, adjusting my wings. a group of people scuttled by, trying to find an inconspicuous place to do key bumps, stilettos glinting like switchblades with their faces bearing uniformly blank, unctuous expressions. later on when the warehouse was shutting down, lindsay, maren and I were standing in the middle of polk street and flagged a cab that was hotly pursued by a girl dressed as a zombie who was sobbing hysterically and banging on the trunk, wailing about how she'd been waiting longer than us. I turned back around, avoiding eye contact with her as I asked if my friends thought we should let her in.

"honey," maren said prudently, "good girls don't hang out in the tenderloin at 6 am."

1 comment:

Cassandra said...

“To blog is therefore to let go of your writing in a way, to hold it at arm’s length, open it to scrutiny, allow it to float in the ether for a while, and to let others, as Montaigne did, pivot you toward relative truth.”

Thought you would be interested. xox.. see you soon! I demand it!