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« Something True, Something Lovely... | Main | Holiday photos »
Little Wing
December 31, 2005
Uncharacteristically for me, I spent last night barhopping on sixth street. Dry barhopping, but barhopping nonetheless.
I am suddenly discovering that I am actually an insufferable music snob, so perhaps hopping bars is the best way for me to get a live music fix without any commitment. We did pay a cover at Flamingo Cantina to see some band that I guess was just straight up rock, but the vocalist was, like, singing and it sounded really dumb. Who knows, I might have enjoyed them if I had listened to more, but the music was too loud and I felt like my ears were going to start bleeding in an unpleasant way and, while hearing damage can sometimes be justified in the name of rocking out, I didn't feel like this particular band deserved that from me. Thus began our one-night stand with the music of sixth street.
So we left, weaving down the street to avoid the drunk and the horny. We took a shortcut through a park and had a conversation with a homeless guy that ended badly. I think he was trying to encourage my companion to take advantage of my dick sucking capabilities because, evidently, fat white girls suck better. Who knew? I mean, I've always prided myself on my ability to give a mean blowjob, but I had no idea it was because of my size or my skin color! Maybe if I ate more and avoided the sun, I could achieve superstar status, or win a gold medal in the dicksuck olympics!
Thankfully, my companion had the sense to steer me out of there and out into the open. I guess I was a little shaken up, but it's not like I've never been harrassed by a stranger before. I remember the time I was alone in a restaurant and some crazy guy kept telling me that he was really good at "playing the harmonica" and if I was to step into the stairwell with him, he'd be happy to introduce me to his mad "harmonica playing" skills. Who knows...perhaps he would have whipped out an actual Hohner and blown some blues licks to die for, but I wasn't about to find out. Since I felt relatively protected, it didn't really bother me. Of course, as a writer and a feminist, it just provides more fodder for the patriarchy blaming and story writing.
So, we kind of dazedly stumbled forth into the next bar where some white dudes were playing those white boy blues. And here's where I make my confession. I find guitar players incredibly sexy. I remember when I first saw my ex playing his guitar, all I could think about was what else he might be able to do with those hands. What can I say - it's a weakness. However, there's a fine line between the guitar as an instrument of seduction and the guitar as an instrument of masturbation. Last night's guitar player was clearly only interested in getting himself off. It was so obvious. I turned to my companion at one point & said "His guitar is so...phallic. It looks like he's jacking off." And then, after the first song, I turned once again to my companion and said "Whenever I hear a band like this play, I always long to hear "Little Wing."
Little Wing has one of the sexiest guitar rifts in rock music, ever. I love how the instrumentation falls apart and always comes together in that one riff that is woven throughout the song. It's amazing and satisfying like one, long, rolling orgasm. Of course, right after I said that I was longing to hear "Little Wing" the band broke into it, and it was the most sexually frustrating experience in my entire life. Mr. Masturbator kept breaking up the riff with his fucking antics and I started feeling all jittery. I leaned over and told my companion "I just want to grab the fucking guitar out of his hands and fucking DO IT RIGHT!" He laughed and said "Do you play?" I was like "No." And I was thinking "But I know the difference between, like, making love and fucking myself, for fuck's sake."
Which isn't to say that the band was bad or that I was having a bad time. I mean, I guess I felt some sort of gratification in the knowing that I know enough about music to know when something is so horribly botched, right? Plus, my companion was sweet and fun and also a non-drinker, so there was none of that "Oh, great...am I going to end up carting around someone who babbles incoherently for half of the evening." I guess I have actually never gone barhopping with a fellow non-drinker, and I enjoyed his presence immensely. A partner in crime, so to speak. As usual, open to anything. I think he actually said that at one point, and I wanted to hug him. I'm sure I will ask him out again sometime. His participation actually made the entire experience cohesive and worthwhile.
After Masturbation Man, we tripped down the street looking for one. last. fix. and found it at an Irish pub where a band was playing fiddle music. It was mad and beautiful and insane with dancing. The fiddle player had this awesome wide grin and he did this cute little booty shake while he was playing and even though I couldn't bring myself to dance, I did smile really big and enjoy the festiveness of the crowd and the music. It went a long way towards washing out the bad taste left by John Q. Jackoff, but stilll...when we arrived home I made coffee and put on the Gun Club so as to achieve some sort of climactic gratification to end the evening right. And each time Jeffrey Lee Pierce nailed that crescendo, I pointed to the stereo and said "Do you hear that? That's how that song is supposed to be played." I'm sure my companion thought I was insane, but, you know, if you want something done right, sometimes you just have to do it yourself...or find a suitable vehicle for achieving that end, anyway.
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Comments
Happy New Year!
Happy new year to you and yours and here's to finding a suitable vehicle, no matter what the context. Smooches.
Thanks, ladies! Same to you!