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When Pants Go Too Low

I just wanted to post a belated weekend update, because I was actually somewhat more jet-setting than I normally am, and I also have a project that needs some input. This weekend and the weekend before it, whoo, what am I, becoming a social creature or something?

Anyway.

Friday: Agent Courtney, DQ, Josh and I met up for beer and French fries and tasty sandwiches at Charlie's, followed by American Splendor. Charlie's is a reliable old standby. Splendor was an unexpected delight, mostly because I hadn't read much about it other than a general buzz that it's good. And it is. Real good: funny, dark, brilliantly acted, wittily edited, and even sweetly romantic in a way you wouldn't expect and will never find in your Uptown Girls and your How To Lose a Guy in Ten Days. Go see it.

Saturday: This is where things get real out of character. On Saturday I donned my sparkly teal eyeshadow, because where else am I ever going to wear it, and hied myself off to Lansdowne St., home of both Fenway Park and the Avalon Nightclub. Why did I choose to rub shoulders with Bruce Springsteen fans* and thong-exposing, tight polyester shirt-wearing, dress code-abiding, hookup-seeking clubgoers?

Bec, aka Secret Agent Spork, aka one half of The Saint Eve, aka Most Likely to Be My Famous Friend, was doing a show there, that's why. The fabulously talented Bec and her partner Gabrielle are on tour for a Certain Liquor Company, going to various upscale-ish nightclubs around the country and providing VJing services as part of a traveling party/promotion for their newest liquor flavor. Not VJing like your old-school MTV, you understand, but VJing like toying with your optic nerve in thrilling ways.

It was a strange and split-personality sort of night: on the one hand, pure fun in video form; on the other hand, girls in vinyl hotpants and wigs handing out tiny glasses of free liquor. On the one hand, my bemused friends; on the other, hordes of drunken and tightly clothed partiers showing each other their buttcracks. On the one hand, a charming juggling free-drinks-dispensing bartender; on the other, women pulling their tops lower to score better tips at the paid bars. An element that does not quite fit into either hand: the performance artist people, who dressed in fetching costumes and then did disturbing and sometimes invasive things, like pretending to cry or rubbing lemons on us. Good or bad? Who can say? Definitely sticky, though. At first, it was all a great social experiment, but I quickly grew overstimulated and was glad to flee the meat-market aspects of my surroundings.

I wish Bec and Gabrielle the best of luck in navigating these murky, fleshy waters. They are doing a little project in conjunction with their tour, which you can read about and contribute to here, please and thank you.

The better to tip the balance of my evening over into Skanky, I walked past the frat house down the street from our house on my way home from the Avalon. What I would've, could've, should've said to the frat boy who snarked "She's really pissed off that there's a party going on, isn't she?" when he saw the face I made upon realizing that his friend was pissing into a bush right by the sidewalk:

"Do you want to smell my urine? No? Then we're even."
"Sorry, I'm just desperately trying not to overreach my monthly quota of flaccid, drunken penis sightings. And it's only the sixth! I'm sure you understand."
"Yes, because nothing says 'Party!' like 'I can't find the bathroom.'"

Oh, well. Chances missed; lessons learned. I'll be ready for them next time.

*I have nothing against Bruce, man. I'm just not much of a superconcert, large venue, throngs of people kind of girl.

Posted by hilatron at September 10, 2003 12:30 PM | TrackBack