September 7, 1999
The thing about early in the morning is its hues and colors are nowhere near as nice as those of sunset. Sunset really has it going on. The blues and reds, sky-blue-pink as my Grandmother used to call it. When is the sky more gorgeous than just then, when the sun is setting and the radio is telling you the weather for the following day as if the night doesnt exist? That anonymity ushered in by mind-blowing color and the darkness that follows, as final as a tomb full of endings. Thats what draws me to the nightlife.
I know that there has been some well nigh definitive writing about the nightlife but I guess that a short story couldnt hurt, could it? I mean sure, Hemingways whole life was a story about the nightlife, but that isnt the point. One story, it just has to sneak through the cracks in a critics stone heart for it to be smiled on by the general public and its all I ask. I woke up tonight to Come As You Are Nirvanas post-pop anthem of angst and teen desire. It remains a favorite song through all the years of rumors about Kurts death and the eventual deification of the band. Well, perhaps not deification, but the feeling nowadays seems to be, Remember when we had a patron saint?
Sure theres still Michael Stipe, but hes more the patron saint of younger aging rockers. He and Kate MacPherson are showing a whole new crop of thirty-somethings that they can still be cool, just like Jagger did after he turned fifty and had three illegitimate children the same year. Jagger the anthem to another worlds cool. Stipe the anthem to our worlds past vision of cool. Im sure there are people who still think that it was a bold move for him to shave his head. Just one of the avant-garde steps in the life of a true artist, they think. But lets all remember what we said when Billy Corgan shaved his head, He looks like a penis! we said. I listened to the caterwauling of a long-dead man whose life was as nice when he died as it had been since he was born and wondered why death was something he would desire.
I rolled over in my little cot and saw the light dying in the window. The day was ending; the blue was all gone from the sky. The heat and light of the day died just like the hero who so optimistically (or was it ironically?) named his band Nirvana. Darkness seeped into the room, malignant and black, cancerous. I swung my feet to the floor and was gratified to notice the soft feeling of the floorboards. After sleeping on the rock-like cot night after night the hardwood of the floor had begun to look quite the way to go. I pushed my pillow and duvet to the floor and decided to sleep there in the morning.
I walked to the shower and I thought about the evenings activities. I needed a bag of crystal and at least two Es before the night was out and I didnt know what exactly the plan was to be as far as activities. Id had my allowance in the day before and I wouldnt have to sell tonight, so it was strictly a party for me. And like Adolph Hitler, the Party and I are synonymous. I rinsed off and tried to decide whom to spend the evening debauching with. What were my choicesTuesday night party at the Kegger, frat boys and bleached girls in their athletic, tight, bony way. Strictly a beer and E evening, the meth would be wasted on a Kegger party. One needs to sleep after having seen a frat boy vomit onto his dates tank-topped bodice. There was probably something happening at the Ku Klux Klown, but skinhead girls have such bad hair and Im not Aryan enough to get in there all the time. Fadarchist was having a ska-punk show tonight but Lumpy had thrown me out last time and told me that if I came back hed break a bottle over my face. I told him to promise me and Id be back tomorrow and hed spat at me. I could just pass out over at Bents or Trinas but that just didnt seem fun, and hash wasnt going to beat two Es and a night on the town. I got out of the shower and dried off, trying to decide on a perfect choice. Nothing was coming to mind though.
Some awful song was on the radio and I couldnt concentrate on both the radio and an outfit for an evening this ambiguous. So off went the FM. I greased my hair and shook it like a dogs till it stuck on end. Its just long enough to look really Sting-y and cool. These days I like to be cool enough to cause interest but not cool enough to have to be tired and bored all the time. Its such a chore to keep those two balanced, but I think I carry it off rather well. Perhaps a bit of metal head banging and some slam dancing at the Pit of Hell. But no, that means mean drugs and angry men. I was in far too good a mood for that.
To be continued...
The thing about early in the morning is its hues and colors are nowhere near as nice as those of sunset. Sunset really has it going on. The blues and reds, sky-blue-pink as my Grandmother used to call it. When is the sky more gorgeous than just then, when the sun is setting and the radio is telling you the weather for the following day as if the night doesnt exist? That anonymity ushered in by mind-blowing color and the darkness that follows, as final as a tomb full of endings. Thats what draws me to the nightlife.
I know that there has been some well nigh definitive writing about the nightlife but I guess that a short story couldnt hurt, could it? I mean sure, Hemingways whole life was a story about the nightlife, but that isnt the point. One story, it just has to sneak through the cracks in a critics stone heart for it to be smiled on by the general public and its all I ask. I woke up tonight to Come As You Are Nirvanas post-pop anthem of angst and teen desire. It remains a favorite song through all the years of rumors about Kurts death and the eventual deification of the band. Well, perhaps not deification, but the feeling nowadays seems to be, Remember when we had a patron saint?
Sure theres still Michael Stipe, but hes more the patron saint of younger aging rockers. He and Kate MacPherson are showing a whole new crop of thirty-somethings that they can still be cool, just like Jagger did after he turned fifty and had three illegitimate children the same year. Jagger the anthem to another worlds cool. Stipe the anthem to our worlds past vision of cool. Im sure there are people who still think that it was a bold move for him to shave his head. Just one of the avant-garde steps in the life of a true artist, they think. But lets all remember what we said when Billy Corgan shaved his head, He looks like a penis! we said. I listened to the caterwauling of a long-dead man whose life was as nice when he died as it had been since he was born and wondered why death was something he would desire.
I rolled over in my little cot and saw the light dying in the window. The day was ending; the blue was all gone from the sky. The heat and light of the day died just like the hero who so optimistically (or was it ironically?) named his band Nirvana. Darkness seeped into the room, malignant and black, cancerous. I swung my feet to the floor and was gratified to notice the soft feeling of the floorboards. After sleeping on the rock-like cot night after night the hardwood of the floor had begun to look quite the way to go. I pushed my pillow and duvet to the floor and decided to sleep there in the morning.
I walked to the shower and I thought about the evenings activities. I needed a bag of crystal and at least two Es before the night was out and I didnt know what exactly the plan was to be as far as activities. Id had my allowance in the day before and I wouldnt have to sell tonight, so it was strictly a party for me. And like Adolph Hitler, the Party and I are synonymous. I rinsed off and tried to decide whom to spend the evening debauching with. What were my choicesTuesday night party at the Kegger, frat boys and bleached girls in their athletic, tight, bony way. Strictly a beer and E evening, the meth would be wasted on a Kegger party. One needs to sleep after having seen a frat boy vomit onto his dates tank-topped bodice. There was probably something happening at the Ku Klux Klown, but skinhead girls have such bad hair and Im not Aryan enough to get in there all the time. Fadarchist was having a ska-punk show tonight but Lumpy had thrown me out last time and told me that if I came back hed break a bottle over my face. I told him to promise me and Id be back tomorrow and hed spat at me. I could just pass out over at Bents or Trinas but that just didnt seem fun, and hash wasnt going to beat two Es and a night on the town. I got out of the shower and dried off, trying to decide on a perfect choice. Nothing was coming to mind though.
Some awful song was on the radio and I couldnt concentrate on both the radio and an outfit for an evening this ambiguous. So off went the FM. I greased my hair and shook it like a dogs till it stuck on end. Its just long enough to look really Sting-y and cool. These days I like to be cool enough to cause interest but not cool enough to have to be tired and bored all the time. Its such a chore to keep those two balanced, but I think I carry it off rather well. Perhaps a bit of metal head banging and some slam dancing at the Pit of Hell. But no, that means mean drugs and angry men. I was in far too good a mood for that.
To be continued...