| summer in the city |
[Jul. 25th, 2008|07:33 am] |
So I leave the office, needing to make one stop before going to The Duplex. I cross Eighth Avenue, and walk around three drunk men arguing. As I pass, one of them picks up a beer can and throws it in the air, splashing me with cheap beer (okay, it could have been malt liquor, I don't know; it just smells nasty) on my head, my perky blouse, my bag, and then on my calves and shoes as it hits the ground.
"What the FUCK is wrong with you?" I ask. The thrower is wobbling and not looking in my direction, but one of his friends looks upset and says, "I'm really sorry, ma'am. I'm trying to get him out of here before he gets into trouble."
"Good idea," I say, and pull a handkerchief out of my bag.
Over at The Duplex, the staff are trying to figure out where the vocalist microphone has gone, and whether they need to borrow one from Stonewall. I explain what my day has been like, and that I probably reek of cheap beer. Greg hugs me, and says, "I don't smell anything." I go up to the rest room area, soak my handkerchief, and use it to wipe myself down, then return to the first floor, where I discuss my "perkiness" with my friends. Joe, like me, is a rather non-perky person, so he shares my dismay; Susan, on the other hand, thinks that "perky" is a compliment.
It starts off as a relatively slow evening. Despite Greg's request, I decide not to start off with "Babooshka"
-- I never did post about Tuesday night, when I tried three new songs. "The Man with the Child in His Eyes" was something of a train wreck, as I lost both melody and pacing during the first bridge, even though I made it through the entire song; "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" felt incredibly low after that, but we enjoyed it, and Greg and I will do it again; and "Babooshka" went astonishingly well for a first try, enough so that I will try it again. I think the trick to it is to go all out, and not even think about what could happen; it's an overblown song, and needs an all-out approach --
so I start with "Whole New You," which really works well with the tambourines from the bar, then "Driving Sideways." The bar starts filling up, and various friends come in. Alison sings "I Touch Myself" to Greg's new head shot, which is a somewhat traumatizing experience. (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) gtrout, when you see the head shot, you'll understand.) Joe silences the room with a version of "Going to a Town" that rips the heart out; later, he sings "Plush" beautifully.
From my stool, I can see four or five young women stumbling along Christopher Street. One of them is wearing a gold cardboard crown, and I can feel some sort of doom fast approaching, so I warn Joe -- and a moment later, they wobble through the door. Two of them immediately ask where the rest room is, while the others take a table (one directly opposite my bar stool, of course -- when doom enters a piano bar, it usually finds me). One woman immediately falls asleep; the others wobble and sing for a bit, settle up quickly, and when a young man they know comes in, they immediately leave, presumably to share themselves with another bar.
An hour or so later, I sing again ("Live to Tell" and "Drop the Pilot"), get a nice response from the audience -- people seem to remember "Drop the Pilot," though I'd bet most of them don't know who wrote and sang it -- and head back to my seat. From the waitress station, Kimlee says, "Nice work, Perky!" and I think briefly about doing things that we would all regret, but settle for putting my book on the stool and banging my head on it.
I take a cab home, and the driver is a Slav of some sort, a poet, who is currently writing anti-Bush slogans, which he shares with me on the ride. I have him drop me off one block away from home, and walk in the cool night air to the building; Soren's awake and waiting for me with a kiss.
Another summer night in the big city. |
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bouncy![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}
not pleased
cheerful
sad
doom patrol volume five (5): magic bus by grant morrison & brian bolland.
artistic
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