Sometimes people really surprise me with their ability to make a nightmare situation for themselves. Seriously, when somebody can tell that everything’s all fucked up, and they’re hiding shit and lying to keep it from getting more fucked up, that should be a giant danger signal.
Aaron’s trying to hide the fact that we have a show from the Sarge. She threatened to destroy his equipment if he played the last show with the Misfits. He didn’t take her seriously, brought her to the show, which led to she and I having an altercation. Also, he caught major hell from her for weeks afterward, I’m sure. So he’s trying to pretend that he doesn’t have a show on Wednesday, and everyone is laughing at him.
He has, however, conveyed to Nikki the fact that the only reason he hasn’t left the Sarge is that he can’t afford to live on his own. I’ll believe it when I see him leaving, which will never happen. Dirk, Nikki and I were talking about Aaron on the way home from practice, and we decided that he really needed a comic book hero based on him. We would call it “Sausage Man.” I even made up a theme song for him on the spur of the moment:
Sausage man,
Sausage man,
Sticks it in,
Just ‘cause he can!I actually sang this to Aaron when he came to hide the extra guitar cabinet at our apartment. His only response was to smirk and say, “You know it!” After that, I decided that I should perhaps re-write the lyrics so they aren’t as true to life.
In other exciting news, I am 98% certain I saw the Sarge pulled over by the cops in a shopping center parking lot. I can’t go for the 100% because it was dark, there were viewing obstructions, and I couldn’t just pull up next to her car and peer in. I will say, however, that it was the same make, model, and year; it had the same stupidly huge number of stupid bumper stickers, and it seemed to have the doll’s head stuck on top of the antenna. Given the way that the car was angled, it looked as though she’d made a desperate careen for the McDonald’s hoping to bash open the side of the building with her car and free all the greasy treats. Sadly, she was stopped by a heroic police officer who pulled his car in front of hers and went down in the record books as a hero.
I made that up. She was, however, next to a McDonald’s with the front of her car facing the building, and there were three cop cars around her car. It was probably either because she drives like a pit bull hopped up on angel dust, or because her car is three types of illegal (and she’s so fat she can’t put the seatbelt on). It made me happy.
There was also drinking this week-end, which comes as a surprise to no-one who knows me. I’m built to drink! Last weekend, we discovered my secret chugging skills; the final holdover from a destiny of drunken debauchery denied. This weekend, Brent realized the truth: the only way he’d have a halfway worthwhile drinking buddy was if he brought over the hard stuff. I drank vodka, he drank beer, and Nikki was on whatever he drowns out his inner torment with these days. Dirk had a couple beers, but he was suffering heavily from sleep deprivation and mostly dozed on the couch.
I’ve calmed down a lot in the last couple years. All I did was talk, and when the pizza came, eat. But the things we talked about! We had Ghostbusters on to start with, and Nikki and I were expressing our admiration for Sigourney Weaver, especially what a good dominatrix she’d make. Brent was unimpressed, not having an interest in BDSM, but interest picked up when we started a comparative discussion about bisexuality. At the end, half the bottle later, I remember babbling about Jesus and the lobsters. I was tired after that, and went to sleep, only to wake up after dreaming about the Sarge walking naked into a party I was throwing. I felt ill, and it wasn’t because I still had a lot of vodka in my stomach.
I don’t remember a whole lot about the conversations, I mostly remember feeling very close and connected. Brent drinks like I drink, without my tolerance. He also has exactly the same self-destructive tendencies, buried like a pearl in the folds of his brain. Everyone says that we’re at our best when we’re inebriated. I can’t imagine wanting to be around me when I’m running my mouth about everything – surely I’m not so silent that anyone yearns to hear what I’m keeping back?
Practice sucked on Saturday. Aaron was two hours late because he insisted on picking up an extra guitar cabinet that we didn’t need. And we were sniping at each other while we were waiting for him, and I was suddenly tired of constantly being in the presence of males and their testosterone. Too many quasi-misogynist jokes, too much pressure, and not nearly enough sleep found me at the end of my usually plentiful geniality. John said something, and I could feel my face freezing up with complete resentment towards him. Everyone was getting their assholes torn off and handed to them, but not really. Mostly, I was just walking around frozen, avoiding eye contact and muttering.
To sum up: too many drinkies, too much anxiety and bass practice, not enough kinky 80’s big hair dominatrix. Also headache from the goddamn toothpaste flavored breath mints I brought instead of real food today.
