That's Rock n' Roll

Don't try and fight it
Just get excited
-Shaun Cassidy

we now return to our regular programming.

I have to get my guitar back. I played at a small club in the south end of town last friday and haven't seen it since. I was singing a song, a slow crooner type song, when a pair of pink panties hit the mic stand and landed at my feet. The woman that threw them gave me a wink, and then sat down laughing with all her friends. Unfazed by her obvious display of affection, at least I hope that's what it was, I continued on with my song, clutching at my chest and clenching my fists into a grande finale. It's really the only part of the show I remember. The entire band was wasted. We all arrived way too early as we thought we were to play first, but eventually we were slotted last, and racked up a 200.00 whiskey bill before getting on stage close to 1am.

It was a pretty high energy set, or so I was told by the pink panty throwing brunette of about 26 years of age. I introduced myself, and had a drink with her party. One was hot, the rest were not, and before I knew it I was smoking a cigarette in the middle of the street, guitar in hand, and the hot one in tow. Which felt much more rock n' roll than taking a packed bus to the venue earlier in the evening with Leroy. We climbed into the back of a cab and I tried to get the driver to keep the meter off and take 5$ for a lift about 8 blocks north. He informed me that it was illegal to do such a thing.

Before she could unlock her door on the 5th floor, we were kissing. The courage one can muster from a fifth of whiskey in one gulp, it really is something. We flopped around on her couch yelling at each other over the new Electralane album. She poured me wine, and I drank it. I didn't need it.

I woke up to her blurry face looking me in the eye from above. Her apartment was the brightest of whites, and in the light of the morning sun she looked like an angel staring down at me. Her name was Vernice. She was fully dressed, and I was on her couch with my pants half undone. She kissed me on the forehead, and instructed me to slip the key under the door when I left. I slept most of the day, trying to raise myself every so often, but was unable to do so. It's amazing how a fifth of whiskey in one gulp can really fuck you up the next day. Finally, I made it into Vernice's bathtub where I read my book for a half hour, got dressed, and landed on the sidewalk downstairs sometime around 4. The band was due to play another club around seven, and I was happy to realize that I was only three blocks from Eliza's place, where everyone would surely be waiting for me. I spent the remainder of the evening on Eliza's couch in my underwear, while Remington got out the sewing machine and made me another pair of skinny pants out of the black dickies I was wearing.

It was so cozy at Eliza's, with the tv on and the suburban smell of barbecue floating in through the window. I was so exhausted that the thought of stepping up to another mic seemed impossible. Eliza popped into the living room every so often to get an opinion on what she should wear. "Skirt, or pants?" I said skirt, and she went with the skirt. "Flats or All-Star high tops?" I said flats, but she wore the high tops. Just then, my memory served up a delicious vision of Vernice rushing past the couch in black panties, fixing her earings and swearing under her breath about missing the train. I have always thought a woman getting dressed is much sexier than a woman undressing. In my younger days, when I used to sit in strip clubs on saturday afternoons, trying to score coke from aspiring bikers, I had always thought the dancer getting dressed at the side of the stage to be the most intriguing part of the whole experience. I guess it was more revealing than seeing them nude in such a tasteless environment. It just seemed more real.

I have to get my guitar back, I left it at a ladies house last friday when I passed out on her couch. Her name is Vernice, she's out there somewhere. It's all I can think about.