It’s pouring, my windows are open and the rain's tune is competing with a playlist of Tracy Chapman-a peaceful competition leaving me wholly happy. Clam happy. Happy, happy hippo. Or is that hungry, hungry hippo?
Either way, it’s an entirely happier state than my previous Sunday when I, stupidly without tissues, saw Eat, Pray, Love- sleeves are in the wash. In recollection, I opened up my version of such a diary, Two Girls, One Backpack, and compared notes, tissues alongside.
I’m no Elizabeth Gilbert (author of). I’m not in my thirties, not in any sort of marriage (happy or unhappy), not a renowned writer (yet), not facing the age of baby poppin’ (fingers crossed), and most importantly, not blonde (these days). But I do know if I were Elizabeth Gilbert, the stunning Julia Roberts would be the appropriate actress to tell my story. And I also do know that in a heartbeat, a taxi honk, a New York minute, an “I’m at your door, buzz me”, I’d give up anything and everything to be on an introspective wander among rice fields and linguini.
Anyways, that was last weekend. This weekend, on my part, was a ton less tearful.
A few friends from work are in a band called Bad Man Yells. They are jazzy, soulful, way talented, and I’ve been meaning to go to a show of theirs. I finally came around to it on Friday. They were playing at a bar in the Lower East Side (New York’s trendiest of slums) so I went fishing for a posse. Leah and Hayley bit, and so began my unending evening, night and morning with the tiny two.
So there are 5 boys/men/whatever in the band. I work with 3 of them (drums, guitar, bass), had previously met the 4th (keyboard/vocals), and shook hands with the 5th (sax [is sex]) pre-show. Live music is one of New York’s most abundant gems, though I’ve shamefully been slow to pursue its’ remedial energy. I’ve really gotta start doing all the things I say “I really gotta start doing…” Hopefully, Bad Man Yells and their genius set was the catalyst to a volume crank of New York’s intended noise, rather than its’ candid sound of honks, sirens and street crowd. We’ll see.
And if you’re wondering what this sax is sex line is, I’ll tell you. Playing the saxophone is sexy. Straight to the point, bottom line, no questions asked, no further detail. Don’t get me wrong, Kevin is originally a fine looking man, but put a sax to anyone’s lips and you’re basically pissing on George Clooney.
Leah, Hayley and I were having a fab time jamming, and continued having a fab time jamming post-Bad Man Yells, though the following band was absolutely horrible. By song two, we were the only ones left in the bar, but I refused to leave until their set was over…I couldn’t make them feel as bad as they sounded, and plus- their clank was a doozy to break it down to.
At 11ish, a $5 chicken wing sign seriously challenged any self-control that had once been added to that “I really gotta start” list. Brought me back to Gainesville Mondays, a favorite night of mine at Mothers joined by 25 cent wings and my strapping MBA boys. Any Gainesville habit reappearing in New York is not a sign of progess, but with Gator Football in two weeks (heck yes) strengthening my inevitable relationship with chicken wings, I figured why not have some pre-season fun. And so the order was placed. And gone in 60 seconds- take that Nicolas Cage.
Not the only slightly less classy act of the night. Around midnight, we received an invite to a venue change. Leah and I made the initiating step outside, but a few of the stragglers were taking sweeter time. In musical spirit, the two of us began belting familiar ballads of Boyz II Men, perhaps giving headache to the window of people who yelled some snarky comment from 3 floors up. To save us, Boyz II GarbageMen rounded the corner. The perfect out for two slightly less classy and slighty vodka-inspired ladies. We put on our citizen badges, ran over to a nearby collection of trash and took turns slinging the bags into an abyss of New York's dump. When we'd slung the street clean, we hopped aboard the garbage truck and down the block we went. Rollercoaster of love, add stink.
After our spin around, we found the nearest restaurant and sprinted to their bathroom. As if the bathroom was waiting for two stinky girls, there was a fresh bottle of febreeze, of which is most likely empty from the excess we sprayed.
With a fresh start, we rounded the gang and headed to bar two of the evening. Sir Saxophone happened to live on the bar's block so he confidently led the way. While gallivanting, I asked him if he intentionally played the sax to attract the ladies. Rethinking that, his talent definitely couldn't have happened over night. He had to have picked up the instrument pre-puberty, and dear Lord, I hope sex appeal wasnt in his thought at that age. Anyways, I got over tooting his horn (ha, ha...get it?) when someone realized we were going in the complete wrong direction. What should have taken us 4 minutes, turned into 30 (literally guys, I timed it off my text messages).
In this whole "we're not lost, it was the smallest of detours," we ran into Rob, a completely passed-out-on-the-sidewalk southern boy, just asking to be mugged. As fellow southerners, we felt compelled to help the sorry chap up and get him to safety. Mission failed as he disappeared into the sea of traffic-jammed taxis. So long white boy, we did what we folk could.
Carry on.
Actually, coinciding with our night, this post is getting too long. There is a second chapter, but because you all probably have some form of self-diagnosed ADD, and lord knows I could write a bible, I'll cut it here.
Ciao for now.
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