8/25/08

Same Fuckin Day, Man

Friday night I went to the gym for fucking ever and almost fell and ate shit on the treadmill because I got overexcited listening to Pink's "Feel Good Time" (did you know its originally a Beck song? In fact, everything but the vocals is played by Beck). After wiping myself down I met up with Sister Pico at his house. We drank Veuve Cliquot and smoked cigarettes and talked in cool, calm, somewhat sober tones about how much we hate certain acquaintances and how it so excellently, precisely appropriate it is for us to talk shit about them. Patted ourselves on the back. Met up with Brandon B and friends and headed to Sugarland for Johnny Darling's birthday party. They serve cocktails there in these tiny little dixie cups and I kept drinking everything as if I was in a race.

Shot boy kept coming over to entice us with plastic vials filled with "Blue Hawaii margaritas". Whenever I got to Sugarland I always tell the shot boys that I used to work there, in fact as a shot boy. I sort of hope that then they'll be nice to me, give me a free shot or something. It hasn't worked yet, and none of the new shot boys are amused even a little bit when I tell them that I used to work there. I don't think they believe me. It sounds sort of unbelievable. The one on Friday really didn't wanna hear it because a) he didn't seem to speak English and b) I wasn't tipping him, because I happen to know that shot boys keep all the money from the $1 shots and that tipping is therefore optional and I wasn't getting the kind of service that really necessitated a tip. I will say that when I was a shot boy there, people hadn't yet caught on to the fact that the shot boys keep all the money, so I would go home with my underpants stuffed with so much cash I didn't know what to do with it.

Saturday I went to brunch, then Bobo and I went out to Bedford avenue to get groovy. Beatnik days at the waterfront, then Nasser invited us to DJ at Eastern Bloc, they needed someone to fill in. We did a quick costume change at my apartment before going out for pizza at my favorite pizza join (you have to go on a date with me to find out where) and on to Eastern Bloc. We both wore red and black and sunglasses. Mordecai showed up and brought us potato chips and M&Ms. We played a lot of Motown, the owner asked us to turn down the bass (never!). Nasser made us whiskey sours and we had a great time. Went with Bobo and Liz to another bar in the East Village, then chickened out. Watched a crazy nature / human life documentary, Baraka, then went to bed. Romantic interlude.

Yesterday I helped my cousin move into NYU. In the afternoon Laz came over and I chickened out about the Metropolitan BBQ and stayed in, listening to PIzzicato Five really really loud, and cooked spaghetti sauce. Which is about as much a perfect evening as I can ever hope to imagine.

Apparently this song's title ("Try (just a little bit harder)") came from an encounter Janis had with a hooker on the street. I don't have it in front of me, but she explained it at a show once. It was apparently a hooker who looked ragged or unattractive or something (at least,
according to Janis Joplin) and Janis wondered out loud how she could get so much action, looking the way she did and how Janis could fare similarly. Try just a little bit harder.





Doesn't this just make you want to run out into the street and start FUCKING?

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