I kid. Well, at least about the piercings. And probably the fornication, mostly for lack of a willing partner.
ANYWHO.
Monday night, Andrea and I rolled up to a house on Court Street that belonged to people we didn't know, was filled with other people we didn't know and prepared ourselves to be crammed into an emptied-out living room to both sweat on and be sweated on by yet more people that we didn't know. I think I speak for both of us when I say it pretty much felt like college.
Naturally we got there way too early, and once we realized that we were going to be hanging out in this house waiting with about four kids who could not have been a day over 17 for the next hour or two until things got off the ground, we made the executive decision to skip over to the Blue Monkey and have a drink.
Around an hour later when we made our return, the crowd had nearly tripled in size, meaning that now there were about 12 people in and around the premises. We hung out in the kitchen, because it seemed to be the coolest place in the house that allowed us to people watch the backyard, chat with strangers who passed through and also avoid standing around in the empty living room staring at a drum kit. Also, there was this.
And also, a utility bill stuck on the fridge for a whopping $312. I KNOW. You will believe me when I tell you that this face, though recreated here for photographic posterity, was in fact my actual reaction.
Little by little people started streaming in, and some time before or after I let a guy I'd never met put ice cubes in my drink that he had touched with his bare fingers, we did run into one of The Magic Kids (one of the three bands playing that night) in the kitchen, at which time I decided to share the story about that time that I accidentally played their "Hey Boy" 45 on my record player's 33 1/3 setting, a story which really was only funny when it actually was HAPPENING, and certainly not on the fifth retelling. But he humored me by sharing that he likes the way his voice sounds slowed down and brought up a pitch, which admittedly I could not quite imagine in my mind's ear, but I went with it and decided to stop talking, for everyone's sake.
Incidentally, later in the evening I ran into a friend of mine from elementary school who I hadn't really seen, with maybe one exception, since the first grade. Turns out? She dates the very Magic Kid who I decided to regale with that story of ineptitude. ALL HAIL, QUEEN OF AKWARDTONIA.
During the first band, a local outfit called Bake Sale, Andrea and I camped right outside the living room where we could hear (and also dance) but where we could simultaneously avail ourselves of the fan in the hallway, which I mostly stood over as I was wearing a dress and found it was the most direct route to cool that which was heated. Ahem.
For Magic Kids, though, we had to get ourselves in the middle of things. And by the end of the set we were just about all up in the front of things, really. But I need to back up here, because I need to tell you who we ran into right before they went on -- none other than Mr. November and Mr. Whoops.
We chatted for just a brief minute, but then Magic Kids were on and we were dancing to an extent that a.) if the floor had collapsed beneath us, in later reports about the incident I think everyone involved would note that they were in no way surprised at said loss of floor; b.) I sweated far more intensely and in yet MORE places I didn't know existed than I ever did in a Bikram Yoga class and it only cost me A DOLLAR.
I danced like my ass was on fire. I don't even really have any other way to describe it.
After their set, we headed outside because SOMEHOW in the summer time in Memphis, Tennessee, it had become a cooler option than staying in that house. Andrea and I had made the executive decision that staying to see Wavves (who I had really wanted to see, playing a house party, no less) wasn't in the cards, because it was around 1 a.m. and we were both teetering on the edge of heat exhaustion AND we both had to be up and out the door in about seven hours to go to our jobs. Like grown-ups. DAMMIT.
But we stood out in the backyard for a bit and chatted with Mr. November and Mr. Whoops. It was not at all awkward, except for maybe Mr. Whoops was being awkward or maybe he was just stoned. Much like the number of licks to get the center of a tootsie pop, we may never know.
What I do know is that it seems my experiment in platonic friendships will not be limited to Mr. Risky Business -- Mr. November will be joining me for drinks and a gig at the HiTone next week. Now THIS could get interesting.
cheers,
elizabeth
P.S.: You can read Andrea's take on her blog -- she will provide you with a photo of the communal birthday cake that we watched at least four people pass through and take bites of with the SAME FORK. Too disgusting for words. But hey, this from the girl who let someone finger her ice cubes. You decide.
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