i walked in the door to the sex shop with my arms up and open and ready for consolation after my week away. i wanted my belly rubbed. with only half a shift down, he was bored out of his mind and ready to comply. he wanted his belly rubbed. but i couldn't stay long. dinner was already six hours late.
i was amazed at my blissfulness from being surrounded by my dirty, cluttered apartment. at least it was my dirt and my clutter. i fell into a bowl of spaghetti and then fell into my own bed at last.
saturday was mostly spent trying to resurrect all the small personality traits which once existed on my computer before they were eaten by some mysterious force. i only left long enough to run some errands, including another fruitless attempt at locating a used copy of jonathan safran foer's everything's illuminated. darren and i had recently heard him do a book reading at the dma and i swooned for the little, young jewish author almost as completely as i had swooned for david sedaris three years ago at the meyerson. his head seemed large and his body small and he exuded an intelligent humor that included the word "tambourining". how could i not fall? that night was followed by small cups of free beer at a photography exhibit in the lobby of the continental where a landmark theater employee fronted his band in the entrance to the parking lot. my remark that the hip quotient was a bit high was scoffed at by darren indicating that, perhaps, his hip quotient was too high. we foiled the security guard with my license proving i was allowed to take us to the roof. the night was rounded out with a drink at the almost-forgotten cosmo's and darren's virgin expedition to the sex shop.
[segue back to last saturday]:
darren arrived at 8:30. we would soon learn that we had been ditched by all three of our invited guests. this gave us an opportunity to talk about them all freely over the musical stylings of Tishara & The Earthtones on the front lawn of lee harvey's. we needed some social lubricant because neither of us had ever entered the Village Station without being irrevocably intoxicated. and that's where we were headed next: the new incarnation of the Village Station known as Station Four (S4) [to be said in your best, bass announcer's voice].
upon entering, we beelined for the bar where i was promptly, if accidentally, elbowed hard in the ribs by a neighboring patron. moments later, i began to wonder if we shouldn't flee for our lives as i watched a large man tumble from the top of a metal staircase and nearly trip us on his way down. somehow, he managed to walk away after a brief moment of being stunned. staircases in bars... what a liability.
up the stairs we continued where we found brian. and, shortly thereafter, dave. our personal entourage completed, we entered one of the rooms resembling a convention hall and attempted to find april, the birthday girl, as she watched the drag show. i became curious how a niche could possibly develop where one could make a living by squeezing into a skin-tight spandex body suit, teasing up his hair, and simply walking around a room to collect dollars while poorly lip-syncing. i desperately wanted some of that action.
but there was no time. we had to return to the business of getting plastered so we would be prepared for the inevitable eventuality known as drunk dancing in the gay bar. and so it went.
i really can't find the words to describe, so once again...