Random Encounters of the Weird Kind
Yesterday
As I lay in bed
A young thug passed beneath my window
And this is what he said:
"He had fucking lipstick! And fucking blue eye shadow! And fucking rosy red cheeks!"
And I laid there for a long time, contemplating those words, as one might contemplate Descartes.
Later, on the way to the public mailbox, a little boy on a bike in a bright red shirt came peddling past me and stopped to huff out these words: "I’m out of breath!" Except it sounded more like 'bweff,' which was pretty sweet. And then he went trundling off into the greater beyond.
Foremost of the recent random street encounters I shall relate happened last Sunday night. It would be prudent to offer some illuminating back story, so I shall tell you that last Sunday night was a gathering of The Court of Lazarus, "a Metropolitan Vampire Society"/"Salon Noir." We meant to attend in the spirit of irony.
Listen, I fucking love vampires, okay? I love vampires ninety hundred times more than the next guy. I’ve read more shitty vampire novels and watched more shitty vampire movies than I’d care to enumerate. Vampires are boss. However, no matter how much I love vampires, or perhaps because of how much i love vampires, I do not pretend I am one of them. But this whole vampire business is too enormous an issue to get into at the moment, it demands a starring role and not a mere cameo, suffice to say I have a very specific notion of vampires and The Court of Lazarus does not embody it. We were after a good laugh and a good laugh is what we got.
Firstly we meant to honour the requirement of elegant gothic formal dress. So I threw open my wardrobe and offered its myriad fruits to Helen of Troy. She chose a deep red corset embellished with dark beads and embroidery, paired with a short black fringed skirt, fishnet stockings, and black satin opera gloves adorned with snap buttons running up their outer length. Her companion, the Prophet Jeremiah, whom we dubbed Demetrius for the occasion, wore a traditional black ensemble accented with a dark red tie. I myself donned a long mermaid skirt of black lace layered atop skin-toned fabric and a black lace top unlined in the back.
Thus was I clad as I made my way down the street to my car and as I was unlocking the door I felt a vehicle slow and stop beside me. Suddenly I was filled with a vague dread and reluctantly looked up to see a white sports car, a young man with a crown of brown curls as its driver. And he said: "You are a very beautiful woman. I want to take you to a party." He had an accent. I couldn’t place it. Spanish, perhaps? As seems to happen to me on an alarmingly regular basis these days, my brain was stunned. But you see, I was late, as I always am, and running on autopilot. So I simply tossed out an obligatory thank you and got in my car, though I did roll down the window as it seemed he was content to linger. He said, "My name is Eric." I should have reciprocated, but my knee-jerk response was: "I’m sorry, I’m in a rush." And he nodded and smiled, getting the message, and left me with these words: "Good night. I love you!" And then he went trundling off into the greater beyond. Never, I’m sure, to be seen again.
I acknowledge there is a certain element of vanity in relating this tale. It’s a bit of the ol’ masturbatory ego stroke. But this particular encounter resulted in a peculiar realization. For, my friends, I did not notice until after he had driven away that our man Eric was actually a rather handsome lad. He looked similar to David Alpay in the role of Mark Smeaton on The Tudors. And he had an exotic accent! Thus was I instantly flooded with profound regret. Too late!
Here’s the deal: usually the only people who are bold enough to hit on someone in so presumptuous a manner are vile beasts. Such monstrosities don’t have time to get to know a person well enough to make proper overtures - their only goal is getting laid. Their reasoning is one of probability: the greater the number of people they hit on, the greater the odds they’ll find one who’s up for an anonymous fuck in a public bathroom. Therefore, I have been programmed to believe anyone who hits on me is a creep. So deeply rooted in my mind is this that I completely failed to register anything else about our man Eric beyond the fact he was hitting on me, the one criterion I needed to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was in fact a creep. And you know, that’s just…well, it’s surprising - and sad. I had no idea! A new idiosyncrasy comes to my attention.
There’s every chance he could have been an actual creep, of course. But he was a handsome man from a strange land with a nice car who felt moved enough at the mere sight of me (in elegant gothic formal dress) to stop his car in the middle of the street just to talk with me and what he chose to say was romantic and respectful and not at all vulgar or seedy. For all these reasons I should have given him the benefit of the doubt, but instead I only acknowledged he was hitting on me and so presumed him a creep. Alas.
I wish I were the sort of good natured soul who could think back on this and draw comfort dreaming of an alternate dimension in which I had told him my name and accepted his overtures and learned he was a European Prince and became his Princess and lived with him in a gorgeous castle overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
However, I am the sort of dark hearted blackguard who would rather draw comfort imagining him an imbecilic deadbeat reprobate with herpes and eight tragic bastards begat upon no less than eight different women. So it goes.
I have learned this: Accept the gifts the Universe gives you. It bestows them so rarely.
As I lay in bed
A young thug passed beneath my window
And this is what he said:
"He had fucking lipstick! And fucking blue eye shadow! And fucking rosy red cheeks!"
And I laid there for a long time, contemplating those words, as one might contemplate Descartes.
Later, on the way to the public mailbox, a little boy on a bike in a bright red shirt came peddling past me and stopped to huff out these words: "I’m out of breath!" Except it sounded more like 'bweff,' which was pretty sweet. And then he went trundling off into the greater beyond.
Foremost of the recent random street encounters I shall relate happened last Sunday night. It would be prudent to offer some illuminating back story, so I shall tell you that last Sunday night was a gathering of The Court of Lazarus, "a Metropolitan Vampire Society"/"Salon Noir." We meant to attend in the spirit of irony.
Listen, I fucking love vampires, okay? I love vampires ninety hundred times more than the next guy. I’ve read more shitty vampire novels and watched more shitty vampire movies than I’d care to enumerate. Vampires are boss. However, no matter how much I love vampires, or perhaps because of how much i love vampires, I do not pretend I am one of them. But this whole vampire business is too enormous an issue to get into at the moment, it demands a starring role and not a mere cameo, suffice to say I have a very specific notion of vampires and The Court of Lazarus does not embody it. We were after a good laugh and a good laugh is what we got.
Firstly we meant to honour the requirement of elegant gothic formal dress. So I threw open my wardrobe and offered its myriad fruits to Helen of Troy. She chose a deep red corset embellished with dark beads and embroidery, paired with a short black fringed skirt, fishnet stockings, and black satin opera gloves adorned with snap buttons running up their outer length. Her companion, the Prophet Jeremiah, whom we dubbed Demetrius for the occasion, wore a traditional black ensemble accented with a dark red tie. I myself donned a long mermaid skirt of black lace layered atop skin-toned fabric and a black lace top unlined in the back.
Thus was I clad as I made my way down the street to my car and as I was unlocking the door I felt a vehicle slow and stop beside me. Suddenly I was filled with a vague dread and reluctantly looked up to see a white sports car, a young man with a crown of brown curls as its driver. And he said: "You are a very beautiful woman. I want to take you to a party." He had an accent. I couldn’t place it. Spanish, perhaps? As seems to happen to me on an alarmingly regular basis these days, my brain was stunned. But you see, I was late, as I always am, and running on autopilot. So I simply tossed out an obligatory thank you and got in my car, though I did roll down the window as it seemed he was content to linger. He said, "My name is Eric." I should have reciprocated, but my knee-jerk response was: "I’m sorry, I’m in a rush." And he nodded and smiled, getting the message, and left me with these words: "Good night. I love you!" And then he went trundling off into the greater beyond. Never, I’m sure, to be seen again.
I acknowledge there is a certain element of vanity in relating this tale. It’s a bit of the ol’ masturbatory ego stroke. But this particular encounter resulted in a peculiar realization. For, my friends, I did not notice until after he had driven away that our man Eric was actually a rather handsome lad. He looked similar to David Alpay in the role of Mark Smeaton on The Tudors. And he had an exotic accent! Thus was I instantly flooded with profound regret. Too late!
Here’s the deal: usually the only people who are bold enough to hit on someone in so presumptuous a manner are vile beasts. Such monstrosities don’t have time to get to know a person well enough to make proper overtures - their only goal is getting laid. Their reasoning is one of probability: the greater the number of people they hit on, the greater the odds they’ll find one who’s up for an anonymous fuck in a public bathroom. Therefore, I have been programmed to believe anyone who hits on me is a creep. So deeply rooted in my mind is this that I completely failed to register anything else about our man Eric beyond the fact he was hitting on me, the one criterion I needed to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was in fact a creep. And you know, that’s just…well, it’s surprising - and sad. I had no idea! A new idiosyncrasy comes to my attention.
There’s every chance he could have been an actual creep, of course. But he was a handsome man from a strange land with a nice car who felt moved enough at the mere sight of me (in elegant gothic formal dress) to stop his car in the middle of the street just to talk with me and what he chose to say was romantic and respectful and not at all vulgar or seedy. For all these reasons I should have given him the benefit of the doubt, but instead I only acknowledged he was hitting on me and so presumed him a creep. Alas.
I wish I were the sort of good natured soul who could think back on this and draw comfort dreaming of an alternate dimension in which I had told him my name and accepted his overtures and learned he was a European Prince and became his Princess and lived with him in a gorgeous castle overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
However, I am the sort of dark hearted blackguard who would rather draw comfort imagining him an imbecilic deadbeat reprobate with herpes and eight tragic bastards begat upon no less than eight different women. So it goes.
I have learned this: Accept the gifts the Universe gives you. It bestows them so rarely.