You'll think I made it up...(but I didn't!)

Setting: Popscene-330 Ritch St-San Francisco, CA-circa mid 90's.

Three friends (2 guys and a girl) are sitting on the stage, at a little table by the DJ, talking and people watching. As they sit there, the girl leans back and rocks her feet back and forth on the chunky heels of her giant black (& pricey!) Luchiny platforms. From this position, she can best convey an air of jaded indifference. Too much enthusiasm would be, well, just sort of...distasteful. (sends the wrong message). She decides to go over to the bar and order a drink. She steps off of the stage and saunters across the club, her walk showing just the right mixture of boredom and confidence. She's thinking she's pret-ty hot shit, people are sort of staring at her, and she just knows it's 'cause she's looking good, hair & make-up done just right, slinky black dress & fishnet stockings, good looking cleavage showing, pulling off the slightly Goth-girl look better than most. She acknowledges one or two people with a smile that suggests she knows she's cooler than they are, but still, she's a sweet person, and willing to deign and be friendly enough to indulge them with a bit of her gracious attention. She orders her drink, (a Midori sour, if I'm not mistaken), and then makes to lean back onto the bar. 

Only, and here's the thing, when she leans back, she falls BAM! flat to the floor, drink falling & splashing, ice cubes shooting everywhere, wet all down the good cleavage, legs going in six directions at once, dress pulling alarmingly above her knees, surprised isn't even the word, what the f*ck just happened?, people staring, staring, and what's this?? She looks down at her feet, and... there are no longer any HEELS on her shoes. Dumfounded, (and no longer feeling all that "cool") she gets up, brushes off, and starts to look around. 

Over on the stage. Two guys, they look really young, both laughing and dancing, one of them with chunky black high heels underneath his white tennis shoes. Wait. What? ... Yes. HER heels. Both of them! The ones that are no longer attached to her shoes! She unbuckles the broken remnants of her expensive Luchinys, purchased on Haight Street just a week before, and hobbles in stocking feet over to the kid to get her heels back, realizing as she skulks away that she had to have walked all the way from the stage, across the club to the bar, only putting her weight on the front of her platform monsters. That's why people were staring (probably). What are the odds? I mean, really. What are the odds, that two heels would break and fall off of shoes at the exact same moment in time, and that the person wearing said shoes wouldn't notice that it had happened until it was way too late? Who else would this happen to? No one else. Something this ridiculous could never happen to anyone else. Just me. 

That's right, I am that girl.

*Adding a little insult to injury, later on that evening, I was confronted by security, and unceremoniously escorted out of the club for dancing with no shoes on. I showed the extremely tall and beefy muscle bound security guard my broken heel-less shoes, ("what am I supposed to do, I don't carry spares!") but that didn't stop him from clutching onto my arm like I was a dangerous criminal and physically pulling me from the premises. He wouldn't even let me find my friends to tell them what had happened, I just had the chance as he was forcefully pulling me out to yell at an acquaintance "Get Jesse! Tell him they're kicking me out!" before I was man-handled and shoved outside. (that security guard was later fired, thanks in no small part to my scathing complaints about the way I had been treated). 

<3

Bus Ride (or: The Frightening Things I Think Of)

Starting my very first blog with something I wrote several years ago. Just wanted to get something in here.

Wednesday January 26th, 2005.

I worked late tonight & some of the guys I work with (in the Financial District) convinced me to come have drinks with them after. Fun, but not much to report. The usual conversation about how I am "so cool" to come along and fit in as "one of the guys" and then lots of frat boy type talk no intelligent girl should ever be subjected to. So then. I'm on the Transbay bus, the "O", on my way home to Alameda. We're on the bridge, no traffic, breezing along at a good speed. There are so many cracks, and barely opened windows on this bus where air is squeezing through that it makes this certain sound. A high pitched squeaking sound, all slightly different pitches, and all at different times, so it sounds like the bus is being pulled along by a million, trillion little birds. Tiny sparrows, or finches... I like this idea. I close my semi-drunken eyes and imagine the bus being powered by a million, trillion little chirping birds. I've heard a million, trillion birds all chirping at once too, before you think I don't know what I'm talking about. Really! They're in this tree, just outside the bus terminal at First & Mission. You can't see them, but you can hear them. There'r so many of them, millions and trillions-all singing at once. It's insane. It's so good, and at the same time, too much. You feel you might lose your balance, if you stand there and listen too long. Anyway. There are only about 6 other people on the bus. The guy right in front of me is sneaking bites from a Jack in the Box bag everytime he thinks the driver can't see him. He has a big nose, pointy, and sharp. I like his nose. It reminds me of Dave. I wonder fleetingly what it'd be like *with* him. This random guy, eating the nasty, mayonaissey smelling JITB with the big nose that reminds me of Dave. I stop myself, reminding me that I've had 3-20 oz Stellas and a shot of Fernet, and that Dave is so very, very over. BUT... I continue to check him out, as there's not much else to look at. He has a medium size bald spot on the top of his head, a perfect circle. I have an almost overwhelming urge to touch it, to run my index finger over the smooth, shiny, hairless skin. I resist the urge, telling myself I won't ever go drinking with "the guys" after work again, if this is the sort of stupid shit my mind will resort to out of boredom and drunken silliness on the way home. I tell myself that this is probably the sort of thing psychopaths think of and that CAN'T be a good thing. I stare out the window, and try to ignore the guy in front of me. I try to hear the "birds" again, and focus on that, but now we're off the freeway and traveling slower, so the cute birdy noises are no longer. What else can I do? I'm staring in front of me again. Dave look-alike puts on his hat, and I kind of breathe an internal sigh of relief, thinking the hat is extra proof that I shouldn't get tactile on the top of his head. Two seconds go by, and he takes the hat OFF again. He reaches into the pocket of his yellow and gray North Face jacket and pulls out some headphones, puts them on, and starts rocking out. And I'll be damned if he isn't listening to LeFreak, by Chic. Fucking DISCO, man. I think this could be a SIGN. If I shouldn't touch his head, ('cause beleive me, I DO know I SHOULDN'T) then I should do SOMETHING. I think, since I know all the words to LeFreak, By Chic by heart, and I can hear them clearly, (its fairly quiet on this bus) that it might be interesting to see what happens if I pull off one side of his headphones, put my lips up to his ear, and start singing along. WHAT would he do???? (I know what I'D do....) (kill a fool) But of course.....these are just my thoughts, and I didn't DO anything. Except trip out even more when the next song this on-the-younger-side-of-middle-aged-somebody's-husband-looking guy played was "Upside Down" by Diana Ross. More disco! ~How weird~.... I'll always remember that song, & the first time I heard it, how I loved it on the spot. I was in London. In Marks & Spencer, and my parent's friend who I was "living" with wouldn't buy the record for me. I begged & begged. I was 12. She kept threatening to sell us (me, and her 2 kids) to the Gypsies. I don't know about NOW, but at that time in this suburb of London, there were Gypsy Caravans parked all OVER the place, like, at every freeway on/off ramp. Every time we'd get on or off the freeway, my mom's hysterical Peruvian friend would threaten to sell us all to the Gypsies if we didn't behave. I was TERRIFIED of Gypsies. That was the summer I was first kissed, (on my 12th b-day, in a game of Spin the Bottle, by the next door neighbor, a boy named Ian, whose unfortunate skin led us to call him Ian Boil).... 

Another time, another story. I AM rambling.