Exorbitantly, decadently, tucked into a corner at Blue Ribbon Sushi, we ran up a hundred-and-twenty-dollar dinner bill. Then I said, “Can we go get ice cream somewhere?” and Tom, and this is why I love him, said, “Totally.” We walked to Ciao Bella on Mott, where he bought me a scoop of Red Velvet gelato, which is raspberry and vanilla, and which turned my tongue a deep crimson.
(I like things that turn my tongue colors, which is why the Slurpee flavor of choice is always Blue Raspberry. It is a constant sadness to me that Blue Raspberry is hard to find. Every now and again I pop into all manner of petrol stations and 7-11s, and always there is cola flavor and cherry flavor and no Blue Raspberry. It’s a damn shame.)
At North Six, Conor Oberst seemed high on some sort of top-secret designer drug, or maybe it was just good ol’ booze. Slurring and then forgetting words and then knocking over mic stands. The show was some kind of incredible musical train wreck. His ever-changing band seemed, tonight, to include Billy Idol on bass. Leaning against the wall in the back, we watched, stunned, mouths open, before falling about in almost-disbelieving laughter.
Still, even when he is crazy fucked up, the kid has a singular voice. He sang this song where the colors were blue and blue and blue and gangrene. And his “Lua” was that kind of quiet beautiful where you see dust sparkling like magic in the spotlights.
We went to Rosemary’s after, where the boys got Buds in massive styrofoam cups. The jukebox was playing “YMCA” and “Macho Man.” Giant butterflies hung from the ceiling amid strings of Christmas lights. I mutilated the lime in my gin and tonic while we sat in the red pleather booth. Bright Eyes turned into Ted Nugent turned into Bob Dylan turned into Ireland turned into a film where people are eaten by sharks turned into Vincent Gallo turned into Will Ferrell telling off his dog in “Dodgeball” turned into Cairo turned into making out with a boy ballerina turned into people hanging off buses turned into Bangladesh turned into Saigon turned into the subjunctive tense in Romance languages, and then it was time to go home. We stepped outside and a cab pulled up like serendipity.
(I like things that turn my tongue colors, which is why the Slurpee flavor of choice is always Blue Raspberry. It is a constant sadness to me that Blue Raspberry is hard to find. Every now and again I pop into all manner of petrol stations and 7-11s, and always there is cola flavor and cherry flavor and no Blue Raspberry. It’s a damn shame.)
At North Six, Conor Oberst seemed high on some sort of top-secret designer drug, or maybe it was just good ol’ booze. Slurring and then forgetting words and then knocking over mic stands. The show was some kind of incredible musical train wreck. His ever-changing band seemed, tonight, to include Billy Idol on bass. Leaning against the wall in the back, we watched, stunned, mouths open, before falling about in almost-disbelieving laughter.
Still, even when he is crazy fucked up, the kid has a singular voice. He sang this song where the colors were blue and blue and blue and gangrene. And his “Lua” was that kind of quiet beautiful where you see dust sparkling like magic in the spotlights.
We went to Rosemary’s after, where the boys got Buds in massive styrofoam cups. The jukebox was playing “YMCA” and “Macho Man.” Giant butterflies hung from the ceiling amid strings of Christmas lights. I mutilated the lime in my gin and tonic while we sat in the red pleather booth. Bright Eyes turned into Ted Nugent turned into Bob Dylan turned into Ireland turned into a film where people are eaten by sharks turned into Vincent Gallo turned into Will Ferrell telling off his dog in “Dodgeball” turned into Cairo turned into making out with a boy ballerina turned into people hanging off buses turned into Bangladesh turned into Saigon turned into the subjunctive tense in Romance languages, and then it was time to go home. We stepped outside and a cab pulled up like serendipity.
posted by stellou at 8:54 AM
4 Comments:
bangladesh? was i in the bathroom for bangladesh?
the magic stardust is aka the astella effect. the appearance of the cab is not as she describes it; i saw her snap her fingers. i cannot believe the northsix downstairs aquarium did not make the cut as blog fodder. or the new signature. or, working backwards, the straw mushrooms, curling around each other on the plate in their hint-of-sweet marinade, affirmative, yummy. brooklyn had a great big cat nuzzling it last night. we returned the love.
you were totally there for bangladesh. sounds to me like one too many beers talkin...
number (a) is, man, that downstairs aquarium. eeeyyyeeewwwwrrr. never before have i seen such a grotty little grot of moss and oh yuk, i'm already wrinkling my nose. truly, you only take me to the best places.
number (b) is, the signature is only new to you, and i realize now that i blogged about it when it really was new. see?number (c) is, mmm. mushrooms. in butter. let's go back to blue ribbon soon and crack that $200 ceiling.
Is the Red Velvet Gelato the same as the Red Velvet gelato created by the girls team on the Apprentice last week? Yes, I know, it's sad, I'm hooked on the Apprentice and I don't even like reality shows. - kraj
I don't know about the Red Velvet–Apprentice connexion, 'cause I don't watch so much TV these days. Although... I just came from watching a bit of "I Love the '90s," which was hard to turn off because Michael Ian Black is so damn funny.
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