The evening started with some amazing food and cocktails at our favorite trattoria down in the Rondout. We know so many people down there now that there's always a friendly face to say 'hi' to. And the new chef at the restaurant is amazing - the food was great before but now....all I can say is 'wow.'
Anyway, it had started to rain and after sating ourselves, we dashed across the street to the music venue.
The whole reason for going is that the lead singer and guitarist is a very good customer where Brian works and he and his girlfriend are just very, very nice people. And this was the musical debut, as it were, of his band.
And I must admit - he was great. The vocals were spot-on and the guitar work - flawless. They played well together and seemed to have a very good time.
So - it was a nice debut for our friend and is girlfriend - but that's not what we're here to talk about - is it?
THE REAL STORY
A warning: the remainder of this post deals in gross generalizations, stereotypes, some hetero-bashing, and general petty bitchiness about people who are probably lovely in person but can still make the Baby Jesus cry.
What was really amusing and really MADE the evening is that two extremely jaded gay men are now sitting in a redneck hetero mating pool - on a Saturday night.
You could practically smell the desperation - or maybe that was the lobster tank. I don't know.
And it couldn't have been better in terms of the cast of characters. We had:
- A bachelorette party of 8 - and I'm sorry - but it was a LOW RENT bachelorette party to be at this place. Each had a bad feather boa and a cheesy cardboard tiara.
- A "cowgirl" of approximately 6' 3" wearing a floor length skirt, denim jacket, cowboy hat and enough make-up to hide Sweden. Our choices were a) transgender, either pre-op or post-op, b) transvestite with no gay or female friends, or c) unnaturally tall woman with no friends whatsoever.
- Multiple cliques of young males with porn star bodies and faces that..well, they didn't live up to the chassis. Let's just put it that way.
In fact, there seemed to be something "off" about each one - we're not talking visible birth defects or anything - they were just...off...somehow. Eyes too small or too close together - extremely bad hair - visible extra teeth - and some who looked like they'd been hit with shovels. Stuff like that.
- Females in expensive shoes with no idea how to wear them or walk in them - paired with outfits that would send a girl from Long or Staten Island shrieking back home. One rather junoesque girl walked in with just the top of her straight hair gathered up in a clip, a white heavily-cowled blouse, tight black capris and a pair of black bondage strap heels that would make Lagerfeld feel a bit faint. The overall effect was that she looked like one of those cartoon water drop people who advertise water softeners or rock salt. In bondage heels.
I was moved to comfort them, but chose to maintain my post. A couple times, I felt very moved. But persevered.
I was perched on my chair, bemused smile on my face, alert --- listening intently and politely as I would at the opera or the symphony - or anywhere else where you can't actually dance to the music. Clapping when appropriate. Smiling at the band and nodding in their direction.
The rare exception of the night was when the band played "I'm turning Japanese" and we (those of a 'certain age') all had to fight the urge to "pogo" or slam-dance on the dance floor.
But I digress.
Some of our companions chided us for not dancing. How could we, I asked? This is not the music of my people!
The music of my people has soul - it has desire. It has passion. It has drum machines.
We dance to Martha Wash, Donna Summer and LaBelle and groups with names like sparkly French fabrics - lovely black songstresses who can belt out a driving beat that will make you sweat, and gyrate and grind. We dance to hip-grinding, deep pelvic, primitive and prideful beats - lusty music that smells of cologne and sweat, salty kisses and whispered promises, slithering across the floor, strong arms moving you closer...
ok. sorry about that....
oh my. Anyway -
So this was some crazy white people music that doesn't even get played at wedding receptions until all the old people go home and the bride's father is drunk and trying to feel up your maid of honor.
At one point, one of the girls from the bachelorette party came over with a wine menu and opened it, asking if we wanted red or white. The menu had a large cartoon penis pasted into it - obviously one of their bachelorette party 'dares." The poor girl looked embarrassed and desperate, so we each ordered a glass of penis and allowed her to escape unharmed back into the wild.
And some time later, one of the bachelorettes - not the bride - began to cry, forcing the other girls to pay attention to their drunk stupid friend.
You selfish cow. Who the hell cries at a bachelorette party? If you are not the bride, then YOU ARE BEING A BAD GUEST. This is the bride's final fling. And when that bride is leaving her girlhood behind at a place that smells of desperation and lobster poop, you don't get to steal her thunder.
Bad bachelorette - bad! Time out for you.
Anyway - the night wound down - the drinks (which were N-A-S-T-Y) petered out and it was time to go.
It felt good to have an excuse for being there at closing time - as the drunk and desperate surveyed the remaining possibilities.
You know - I'm often glad that I don't have to be in the dating scene anymore, but man, I'd totally forgotten what the playing field looked like.
Give me corporate America any day - it's easier. The days of shaking my money maker for love are well and amply behind me - as is my money maker, matter of fact.
Well - to all you young lovers - wherever you are... I hope I never see you in this element again. I'm going to have to double up on my meds to get this out of my mind. Jesus Christ.