The last two-and-a-half weeks I’ve had to resort to drawing up daily schoolwork to-do schedules. With checkboxes. It’s come to this. But it’s been going pretty well, I guess, feeling all productive-like. Still, this ongoing low-level stress thing is getting pretty tired. Had two class presentations this week, then this weekend I write a paper, next weekend I write a paper, the weekend after that I write a paper, and then the week after that I spend desperately memorizing as much as I can about seventeenth-century French literature. Clearly, girl needs a break. And I knew it was gonna be a good one when today in the hall Jason and I were making plans to go see Dave’s band Chromeo, and I said, “Who are they opening for?” and Jason said, “The Unicorns, and I think the other opening band is The Ponies or something.” And I said, “Ponies, that sounds familiar.” And he said, “Only because you want a pony.”
And then it continued to be good when—passing by the bunch of girls tossing about a frisbee in all their long-haired slow-mo American-youth glory, as if in some sort of Juicy Couture tournament—we stopped by the cash machine in Lerner and the girls behind us in line said: “I know, I mean, I really wanna go to, like, Spain with the Peace Corps.” “Oh, I know! Me, too!” “Yeah, and like you’re in Spanish, too, right?” “Yeah!”
After the longest subway ride ever, involving four—count ’em, four: the 1, the 2, the N, and the R—trains, we emerged in the Slope hungry as all hell. Dinner at Mekong, where the grilled eggplant was a pleasant discovery and the grilled squid in a spicy mango sauce continued to be taste-a-licious, and where I had to order the thing called Royale Tropicale because (a) it was called Royale Tropicale and (b) it was champagne and passion fruit juice, and this girl doesn’t turn down a champagne cocktail.
At Southpaw, our names were on the list. And, man, sometimes it just takes a rockin rockin room of thumping rockingness, and a deejay who knows to play Wham!’s “Everything She Wants,” and Dave’s crazy-shaped guitar, and the thing that makes Pete’s voice go Daft-Punky, to make the thought of homework go far, far away. (Um, the don’t-try-this-at-home bit is, apparently the thing that makes Pete’s voice go Daft-Punky can also electrocute you. Because you stick it in your mouth and the other end of it is plugged into, I dunno, a socket or something. Uhhhmmmm.) Dave said, “All our songs are about girls!” and “Our music was designed to make you feel good,” both of which are true and good. It turned out the Ponies were Pony’s, but we’d missed them anyway. And The Unicorns were good, I guess, and not just because one guy was dressed in pink tuxedo pants and a matching pink capelet and a pink shirt underneath. We just didn’t know what all the in-between-songs lame-banter down-time was about. It’s not like they were Britney Spears and (a) simulating masturbation and/or (b) having nine costume changes. But it was funny ’cause their two front guys look like: during rehearsals, one of them sits around getting stoned and giggling, while the other says, “Man, come on, let’s just go over that one one more time.”
Before we left, the coat check girl said I had the coolest bag she’d seen all night. And then because I am extra lucky, I got to walk home along the park.
Tomorrow, like Lars says, I will get my educate on.
And then it continued to be good when—passing by the bunch of girls tossing about a frisbee in all their long-haired slow-mo American-youth glory, as if in some sort of Juicy Couture tournament—we stopped by the cash machine in Lerner and the girls behind us in line said: “I know, I mean, I really wanna go to, like, Spain with the Peace Corps.” “Oh, I know! Me, too!” “Yeah, and like you’re in Spanish, too, right?” “Yeah!”
After the longest subway ride ever, involving four—count ’em, four: the 1, the 2, the N, and the R—trains, we emerged in the Slope hungry as all hell. Dinner at Mekong, where the grilled eggplant was a pleasant discovery and the grilled squid in a spicy mango sauce continued to be taste-a-licious, and where I had to order the thing called Royale Tropicale because (a) it was called Royale Tropicale and (b) it was champagne and passion fruit juice, and this girl doesn’t turn down a champagne cocktail.
At Southpaw, our names were on the list. And, man, sometimes it just takes a rockin rockin room of thumping rockingness, and a deejay who knows to play Wham!’s “Everything She Wants,” and Dave’s crazy-shaped guitar, and the thing that makes Pete’s voice go Daft-Punky, to make the thought of homework go far, far away. (Um, the don’t-try-this-at-home bit is, apparently the thing that makes Pete’s voice go Daft-Punky can also electrocute you. Because you stick it in your mouth and the other end of it is plugged into, I dunno, a socket or something. Uhhhmmmm.) Dave said, “All our songs are about girls!” and “Our music was designed to make you feel good,” both of which are true and good. It turned out the Ponies were Pony’s, but we’d missed them anyway. And The Unicorns were good, I guess, and not just because one guy was dressed in pink tuxedo pants and a matching pink capelet and a pink shirt underneath. We just didn’t know what all the in-between-songs lame-banter down-time was about. It’s not like they were Britney Spears and (a) simulating masturbation and/or (b) having nine costume changes. But it was funny ’cause their two front guys look like: during rehearsals, one of them sits around getting stoned and giggling, while the other says, “Man, come on, let’s just go over that one one more time.”
Before we left, the coat check girl said I had the coolest bag she’d seen all night. And then because I am extra lucky, I got to walk home along the park.
Tomorrow, like Lars says, I will get my educate on.
posted by stellou at 7:10 AM
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