August 07, 2005

WATERMELON IN A BOX/CAT ON THE LADDER

I lit the yard torches in hopes it would be a bat signal, or work like the search lights that roll up through the clouds, so you know where the club is, or that the Eagles are playing (I wonder if when you become that eschelon of famous, if rolling search beacons are on yr production rider, or if they roll with you?). Light the $9 Home Depot Lawn Centre purchased yard torches. Miles worked the flammables department and then dipped to a Chicago Ave burrito hut with my other confidante help-meet (or is it help-meat?), JR. So I sat in the yard, alone, feet up on the table, empresario of the ratty yard, waiting for someone to show. I scrolled the phone nervously.

No one will come. I know it . Hostess anxiety.

And then Robin Bonebright, friend from Blogtown, who sells special umbrellas for a living, showed up. She brought champagne and cupcakes she had made and cigarettes. Then Kiki and Doug. Then Miles and JR returned with tacos and king cans and then more people and then some more and Hunter with his frenchy moustche and Jane with her perfume and then it was 12 and I was manning a watermelon that was so big that cutting it was a two person job, and then the guest of honor showed and it was introductions all around. It was stories about the dude with a watermelon on his head shitting in the yard at the Dillinger 4 party, or the time JR's old roommate tossed a lit quarter stick of dynamite out the window and 15 feet from his yuppie neighboors 4th of July party. I laddled lemonade from a 5 gallon bucket into red Solo cups and said "Good to see you, good to see you."

Then it was sotto voce debate as to whether we are supposed feel gentley sorry for OR totally annoyed by dudes who are so intimidated/unfamiliar with how to socially navigate a non heirarchacal (sp?) setting (circle of writer girls talking) that they freak out and engage competitive/male gender culture norm (start rattling off minutae about prog-jazz fusion drummers you have never heard of, the key fact being that he knows you have never heard of them). I should have run in and referenced my CrimethInc instructional poster on subverting gender norms, consulted it like a Ouija, as it is handily posted above my office desk for just that, but instead I rattled the ice in the bottom of my cup and gossiped. (Poster: (download it here) or (buy it here) ( it says: "For every boy who is burdened with the constant expectation of knowing everything, there is a girl tired of people not trusting her intelligiance": again - what will bust us out of the cliche: empathy and example or confrontation and ball busting?).

I made the rounds and offered up laptop sized hunks of watermelon from a Priority mail box. Someone put Monkee on top of a ladder, and people gathered around, marveled at her sweetness, her collar-with-a-bell. Not quite West Bay Invitational as far as punkparty, but it was nice just the same .

Posted by Jessica at August 7, 2005 01:42 PM | TrackBack