December 1999 smoking jacket by Gregory Alkaitis-Carafelli |
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Slack Jawed
The Indie Rock guide to meeting people, Mad Lib style (IRGTMP):
It was the low point of the week, my garbage having been rejected from
curbside collection for reasons still not clear to me. But it was clear
that just my garbage had been singled out -- wasn't good enough
to be garbage, was lower than garbage if such a thing is even possible,
and so had been left exactly where I set it at the curb, with a note on
cardboard, stuck to the few black plastic bags: "better luck next week."
I don't handle rejection well. I fell asleep during the opening band at
a show that night, distracted, morose, my mind in the gutter, literally,
thinking about trash.
But these plebeian cares were no more as the next band took the stage,
in full licorice chewing, cigarette smoking form. I admit to
fascination, consuming fascination, with the band; specifically the
licorice chewer, about whom whole arias would be composed, USENET flame
wars would start over, park benches dedicated in her honor. She is the
gravity that pulls men's jaws south. And what do you say to a natural
force who is also a rock star? This is where the IRGTM would be
consulted, and I am confident it would not have suggested I say what I
did: "Can I have a Twizzler?"
"OK. Shhh. Don't tell anyone," she said, and gave me a wrapped strand of
licorice. (It is this thin thread of a promise indirectly made, by the
way, I am holding on to by not actually naming the band.) But, the candy
handed over, the exchange was complete; she vanished with the rest of
the bucket of licorice. End of line. I was thrilled but very
disappointed at the same time. True, I had gotten what I asked for, but
in my mind there was more to it; the Twizzler would naturally lead to
witty, fresh conversation -- the whole thing would be more Abercrombie,
less eBay. Instead there I was, alone, with a single piece of candy the
only proof I'd even met her.
Obviously I needed a second chance, and what a perfect opportunity: I
could give back the borrowed Twizzler. Not, of course, the digested
pieces of the actual candy consumed, but, you know, a fresh package
(sealed). The chance came a week later in a club with television
monitors everywhere, all showing Nosferatu -- which, in my mind, was a
ploy to sell more watered down drinks. It is unnerving to look up at
someone and see in the background men climbing out of open graves;
immediately, you think "yes, time for a refill."
And yes, transfixed by the grainy black and white movie, I admit to
conjuring grand plans. She would be charmed; it would be better than
last time, i.e. actual conversation would occur and segue neatly into
coffee afterwards, at this nice place right around the corner. It didn't
matter that I couldn't think of what we would talk about; all would end well.
Well. It ended, at least: licorice delivered. But that is all I managed
to do -- it was a complete conversation failure. So, the ultimate
problem that comes from all of this is that even though I am one of the
people who needs (and would benefit from) an IRGTMP the most, I am
clearly unfit to write or even help with the writing of such a guide.
Although if you like Twizzlers I know just who to talk to: now if only
someone would help me with what to say.
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