Some raw, choked smoke hangs above the throbbing beats in the strip club. Every song is distilled to a raw, sexual essence. From classic rock to ridiculous hip-hop. The girls move in synthetic, hyperbolic fuck-thrusts and glassy-eyed freelance sways. Everyone’s a lurid pulse. Blood beats somewhere, everywhere. The DJ’s words bypass the music, like a car turning around a downed tree.
Outside, two bouncers share a cigarette. Tossing lecherous bastards and grabby drunks with playground bully tactics. The cold air washes around the grey air, drifting up. From the door, and the red lighting, sound emerges like an uncoiling dragon body. Afterwards, everyone puts on a sweater and goes home. The stage gets mopped up and dries alone. A stubbed cigarette sits in the gutter, waiting for rain. The DJ took a cab, his hand on his laptop. He’ll go home and put together another set, another playlist. He knows most of the girls by two names and doesn’t even think about it. It’s just a job. Some people sit in an office and type away numbers. Some people don’t.
I know I’m back in San Francisco because I got into a fifteen minute long argument about why Drive is/isn’t sexist (strong violent male lead and motherly weak female lead vs. character development and the use of “stock” characters and deliberate cliche to dichotomize the Driver). Oh boy, oh boy.
THIS EAST COAST ISN'T AS GOOD AS THE LAST EAST COAST
this trip back’s been a bust.
my last trip back was phenomenal. but then when I went back to SF after that, I was going back to a huge new apartment and a new fancy high paying job with infinite potential. now I’m going back to a small transition apartment and a new fancy high paying job and no idea what the fuck I’m doing.
the last trip back was erotic and exciting and I got to be confused and happy and gloat a lot and get drunk with my friends. this trip back I spent most of my time being either berated by my family or sitting around waiting for people to call me back and then just watching Fringe.
be nice to get back to SF. my homeland of disgustingly disinteresting political types, quirky lesbians, drunk artists, bitter stoners, vegans, quakers, bakers, candlestick makers, hot broads, and of course, the tea shops and dive bars where everybody knows my name.
the fluid from the bag is cold when it hits your vein, like the sneer on the sheriff’s face. shades climb down almost to his mustache.
"killed your wife," he growls, "good fucking job."
the scientist next to the sheriff adjusts his perfect, small, very round glasses and looks up at numbers and letters streaming down a screen. a waterfall of information reflects in those perfect, small, very round glasses, and then he looks over them at you.
"zis vill, of course, be only ze first ztep." he taps the sheriff on the shoulder and whispers something in his ear. the sheriff’s grin splits his mouth apart, and he looks down at you, putting his shades in his shirt pocket.
"good fucking job," he says again, and pulls his gun. the metal is cold, jammed up against your forehead, and as if from a distance, you can hear a ticking sound.
"now," says the scientist.
reflected in his glasses, blood sprays everywhere.
welp it's my last day before heading back to my real life in SF
and I’ve accomplished absolutely nothing of interest on this trip besides perhaps adding a bit of vestment and cardiganation to my wardrobe. mostly it’s just been family (on my case about a bajillion things), and bumping into like two people I haven’t seen in years.
Dammit, why is everyone else's life a delightful romcom and mine just a Woody Allen medley.
Really it's because you're that surly disappointed oversexed romantic secondary character. You get laid a lot, but because you never learn your lesson, you keep making the same mistake.
And because you keep making the same mistake, you're doomed to be that same one-note side character forever. You'll give great advice to the main character, and have a lot of laughs, but you'll still just be THAT.
well I did that thing I do where I sell most of my random belongings back east and then I go out and buy a shit ton of suit related stuff
but fuck yeah, three argyle sweaters, two sweater vests, a bunch of cardigans, three ties, a three piece suit, a pair of vans that match one of the ties (I noticed this, couldn’t resist), and a random old school vest. some will have to be fitted or tailored, but, yee-haw.
lately I’ve been going from “surly private investigator” to “surly english professor”. somewhat Gabe’s influence, methinks.