January 29, 2006

AND WE REMAIN, EVERY SO FAITHFULLY, YOURS

What you forget when you do do not drink, when you do not hit the bars on the weekend, when you are not on the streets as the goodtiming people float or straggle out; what you forget is the particular sound of drunken midwestern girls with that high Cicero shine to their voices, so sharp it can cut through the sound of a downpour a half block away. Heeled boots stutter-scraping along, keeping slopping clip cloppity time to her liquid chattering that peirces.

It is on my short list of why I will one day move to the woods. Nothing is grosser than people after last call. I want barn owls in their place.

My night was long. It is sometimes strangely lonely doing stories, out by yourself, glued to the makeshift notepad, noticing, noticing, scribbling blindly, looking for the point of interest... but on the way there, to those points of interest, that may or not appear to be of actual interest until they matriculate and get interpretted when you are typing it all up hours later... en route, there are bands that feel like violence and punks who vomit on the floor like it is their job. There are people that laugh at vomiting punx, then there are those that stiffle a gag, then there are those of us grateful our purse is made of rubber as beer and gyro meat flecks its side, as it rains from the singer of the Functional Blakouts mouth, in between choruses... for the third time.

Tonight, point of interest, it was ladies mudwrestling in an abandoned warehouse. People were contained to one room, with a bathroom line so long people were pissing in hallways and out of the way spots, hawking for a good spot from which to best eye some exposed, muddied titty... After 40 minutes in one room, everyone was acting ratty, idling, as it was past capacity, and the wrestler-folks were limiting the amount of people in the wrestling room because the floor was weak, structurally. There was no heat and BYOB and by 11 pm, a third of the room was pirate eyed, slack faced, screaming and rowdy, tired of waiting through band, demanding wrestling honeys now. 20 minutes later, I was sandwiched between a mudcaked pansexual orgy in the front row and a sea of dudes making comments about every wrestling girl, every move, what every leopardprint bra disgarded in the ring amidst the chaos exposed. All 70 of the dudes cheered and clucked when the ref would instruct the girls to get on their knees at the start of the rounds. I got the sinking feeling that I last had about two weeks into to the first month of working on the Suicide Girls story-- my ear cocked to some bullshit that would make me realize the grim greed and desperation to which most people are prone, so much so that I will think it is our most natural nature, consume, be consumed, appetite infinite and never satiable--in that, my heart shivers and my humanity stiffens--reporting this, writing this out means I have to process it, I have to take it all in, and it feels like a burden.

I concentrated on my notes and tried to duck when the ref slam'd his hand into the mud when he did the pinning counts --it sent the mud arcing through the room in threes.

The final round, where a lucky raffle winner boy from the audience wrestled two girls, was preceeded and overtaken by an audience-on-audience mud fight. I scrawled long notes about the scrawny boy, clad in a thong, joyfully allowing himself to be pinned, his shameless boner like a gift to the world, mud caking his smile. When it was over, I turned my shirt inside out so not to endanger my still pristine paddington coat, which I had hid far from the vomiting, beerspilling and mudsplatting, headed out, passed the cops and rollergirls and boys talking about asses and bands and went out side, walked a few blocks and waited for the bus. Stupidly, I assumed with all the mud soaking my hair and much of my face and being that I was dressed like a child in a story book, in my wader boots and canary coat, and that I was seated at a bus stop--you know, I thought that I did not look like I was out to turn tricks... but alas, no. I forgot, if you are a girl outdoors after midnight on a weekend, you might as well put groundeffects around your pussy. A dude in a benz, a cabbie and another dude cruising his sparkletrash with a spoiler-- a woodbead crucifix from the rearview -- all sought me for some service. I did react in the way I used to when I was a young woman, which was get close enough and then spit in their faces--instead I watched the muffler shop's sign blink from time to temprature, time to temprature for 23 minutes til the 77 showed.

The first bus was full of muddy people screaming each others names for no reason.

The second bus I got on, a girl, a very big girl, was rolling on her boyfriend, nuzzling, muting him with her whole body, her words were past slurring, just some grunting whine; turns out she just wanted a kiss.

Posted by Jessica at January 29, 2006 02:36 AM | TrackBack