February 13, 2005

FAKE SUMMER WITH REAL SNOW

After uncrunkling from the planeride back, I nabbed Miles and Ben and we made our way to the summer themed dance party Comeau was throwing at the skeezy Polish bar. Dress for summer and you get in for $3, $8 fine for dressing "winter". We all were wearing parkas and slunk in for three a pop, though I do not think Miles even paid, but that might of been because he was rocking this unholy look that imagined Marc Bolan as a Crip, which took him direct to the non-payment level. 70's rock scum meets gangsta says "I'm carefree" with a particular sang-froid daring that is about four years into fashion-future.

The theme party was rife with the boozy and braless. The combo of sunglasses indoors, halter tops, top 40 music and inflatable plastic palm trees summoned every 80's movie's party scene where the bougie kid's parents are out of town.
Or Chuck Klosterman's birthday party staged at a Sandals resort.

Ben and I slunked down at our table, Miles mingled. I nursed my tap water on the rocks, Ben his Bud brown bottle. After six minutes, somewhere in the bridge of "Lean Back", our eyes glued with glum fascination to the trainwreck of damaged grind ideas summoned by the freed azzes of the partytown's real party girls, Ben turns and says "You know, it really is true what they say about white girls and dancing." I slurped a yes out my stirstraw and continued with my mute orgami reworkings with the waxed paper Tootsie Roll wrappers, and thought about all the other things I'd rather be doing like catching up on back issues of New Yorker or fucking my boyfriend.

I only like real summer parties during the real summer.
These winter parties are like a joke with no punchline.

Stayed another 40 minutes past this, by apathy and by accident, out of having interminable strings of 90 second conversations with peoples names I should know by now. All of whom seemed surprised to see me and inquired about what I am doing in town, which made me feel both hermetic and worldly -- as if spending a few weeks at a time in Minnesota were equivalent to "living abroad". It is, perhaps, the deepest dream come true of notorious me - no one actually thinks I live here anymore.

Things were livened up considerably once Ralph, DBA Major Taylor, hit the decks and brought his Philly party-rock skills to the floor. Three years into the dance-party splosion, and every amateur DJ who plays every party still doesn't know how to mind their levels, beat match or even blend safely (I am not entirely exempt from the wackness cadre). So, it's nice to feel the choice caress of a DJ who cuts the hit by the bridge and gets you to the next song, which was better than the last... As opposed to giving you 14 seconds of silence followed by a techno remix of an ironically adored terrible pop song - a song choice which indicates that the DJ cannot actually tell the difference between good techno and bad techno because it's all just 'dance' music to them, usually followed by the forever shit sandwich of Billy Idol/the Rapture/ The Cars -- all the bands that make me wish for Old Testament God to hurry up and exact his wrath on the white people already.

None the less, Ralph killed it with his skills-a, which more than made up for opening his set with "O.P.P" - which I view as the sort of song you only play at wedding receptions (or proms) when the barf-drunk bridesmaids are shoeless and slipping around the parquet in their nude hose.

I spent the rest of the time tonguing Tootsie Rolls out of my molars and casually watching the bathroom lines, getting angry and sad (and various toxic combos of the two) as people I know, including some bona-fide friends, slink Noah's Ark style, two by two, into the mens and ladies rooms and come out sniffing, mechanically jittery, grinding their teeth. So, I stole the rest of the Tootsie Rolls off the table, cheek-kissed those I came with, and retreated home, abandoning my witness seat, as watching the smart and talented cop out, trying to stave off 30's reality-bite with a Simulac-cut bump really gets me down.

Posted by Jessica at February 13, 2005 04:54 AM | TrackBack