Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Cigar? Cigarette? 'Zine?

A still from Monday night:

I'm standing in the middle of a crowd at the Nokia theater in Times Square holding an armful of magazines in front of my shirt lest I blind passersby. I was told "disco fabulous." I obliged with sequins. Amanda Lepore bounces past, looking more wonderful in lingerie than most people could in a ballgown. I offer free copies of the magazine to millers and loiterers. They have already checked their coats so most pass up the offer. My stack of magazines stays hefty. The magazine is called "Useless."

This is the moment when I resolve that I will, from Monday night unto eternity, try to avoid situations in which I serve as my own bitchy caption.

Speeding up the tape and letting it play, Monday night was one of those things I was lucky to be invited to and had a good time at in spite of my semi-hourly tendency to feel awkwardly out of place. A friend of Brad's and marginally mine was asked to open for Goldfrapp's only US date, as well as corral some general B/C/D-listitude into the lobby pre-show. I got a free ticket in exchange for wearing something disco fabulous and handing out magazines with a not-just-cute-but-leave-a-puddle-cute guy. (It is a heavy cross I bear.)

But, so, I'd be walking around, knee-deep in schmooze, walking, walking, and start thinking about how my new boots were a little bit uncomfortable because they're a tiny bit small and not broken in yet, and then I'd be thinking about how I ordered them from a Delia*s catalog, a catalog whose name includes a star, a catalog aimed at girls shopping for outfits that will totally kill at a canteen not a pre-show party for a musical act they really like, and then I'd be looking at everyone else's either perfectly vintage or even more perfectly new boots and coveting on a biblical level, and then bam, that's it, I'm thirteen and in the cafeteria of Mildred E. Strang Middle School at our once a month dance, listening to the Real McCoy and appearing actually, physically, literally green with envy over a ying-yang tie-dye belly shirt.

And who wants to be stuck on neo-hippie, Woodstock II when all of Heatherette is pursing their lips on the other side of the room? Not this girl, that's who. So I snapped out of it.

My theory is that even if the evening was full of carousel-style highs and lows, at least I was on the ride, eh?

(That's from the Kathy Cacace Line of Unused Sports Pep Talk Metaphors.)

The actual Goldfrapp show was good. Titty dancers? Check. Titty dancers wearing giant silver horse heads? Double check. Superhomos spoken to by security for dancing too enthusiastically in front of me? Check, check. Asscracks of aforementioned superhomos observed? Check. My love for them? Considerable. "Bwaap bwaap bwaaap bwaaap bwaaap...." bass lines? A lot, but that's why we love Goldfrapp.

On the walk to the subway after the whole thing was over we passed the giant King Kong parked in the middle of Times Square as a promotion for the upcoming movie. Kong looked like he has seen better days. Even aside from the Wrigley's wrappers in his fur he seemed kind of forlorn. They couldn't have made him a little fiercer? It's his big night out (in midtown!) and he looked like would rather miss the whole thing to stay home with a pint of Chunky Munky and the Lifetime Movie Network.

Even when your moral comes from a huge stuffed gorilla in need of a mood stabilizer, it's still good.


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