The LOUD Night @ Cosmo (Part I)

-
PRELUDE
This night? It’s for the Bongster’s birthday. I don’t know his age. I know his dog’s age, but I don’t know the Bongster’s. Maybe that’s why they call me the Whizz-Bang. And if you don’t know the Bongster, well, he’s a genius. And a bongster. 

At least I’ve sense enough to bring ear plugs. So cut me some slick. I find a spot to leave my Daewoo on Southpaw Ave, near Peeling Park Road. That’s something like a mile from where I want to be, though. And it’s raining. But my Daewoo has umbrellas. It’s got bottled water and protein bars, too. Also: gum, a flashlight, tools, a bottle of windshield fluid, a spare tire, spare change, towels, camping chairs, condoms, maps, and The Club. Mine Daewoo goes everywhere always prepared. 

@ COSMO (Part I) 
I beat everyone to Cosmo. By “everyone” I don’t mean everyone in the world. I mean “everyone” who’s currently anyone, or at least someone, to me: the Bongster, the Bongster’s bro, Zen, Lass, Nico, & Larr.

If you wanna drink at Cosmo, you’re made to wear a plastic neon-yellow bracelet with black circled Cs on it. When you want it off, you’ll have to cut it, that’s the only way. Maybe I’ll leave mine on — for life. Maybe I’ll be buried wearing my Cosmo “Gimme A Beer, Bartender” bracelet. Hundreds of years from now, when I’m just bones, this plastic bracelet would still be ‘round my wrist. And hundreds of years after that, I’ll just be dust ‘round this plastic still neon-yellow bracelet. And future archeologists — if they were to dig my dust up — I’d bet they’d call this bracelet a religious thing. And they’d be wrong. Dead wrong. So, with any luck, this blog post will set them straight. 

Everywhere in here says: Miller. So naturally I order a Bud. Whatever it is, this beer costs five bucks a plastic cup. In the basement — they call it Shrewd Bar — a full bottle costs a dollar less. (Is that why it’s called Shrewd Bar?) 

Back when your great-grandparents were prepubescent, this was some kind of fancy-pants theater. Now, everything fancy’s been ripped out, painted black, or somehow blocked from view. Like your great-great-grandparents, every permanent upholstered seat is ancient history. Instead of an orchestra pit, Cosmo’s got a mosh pit. 

Later, when it’s nothing but LOUD, Zen shouts into my ear her wonder: If the original owners of the place are turning in their graves. “Aw,” I shout back into her ear, it was probably a house of burlesque, anyway.” But I’m wrong. That’s why I’m the Whizz-Bang. Cosmo’s website’ll tell you the whole building was “built in 1923 as a Swedish community center.” So, okay, there might be a bunch of flapper-Swedes turning in their graves. But then maybe flappers were the alt-metalheads of their day. 

I plant myself upstairs — this is the “balcony” — with my beer hanging over the rail, over the heads of grungy head bangers and their dangerous looking girlfriends. Every odd person here lights something up to stick betwixt their lips. It’s so chic to be young and cancerous. 

I take it back. 
Maybe it’s every even person. 
I’m the odd one. 

The first band starts up. Insert earplugs here. The LOUD is muffled. Though not by much. Verizon buzzes my thigh. It’s Zen. It’s amazing we can hear each other. She promises, they’ll be here soon. 

1 October 2004 



Popular posts from this blog

SHUSH

-
Along with the stomping freak who uses the flipside of my ceiling as a floor, the folks with whom I share walls cannot tolerate silence. No, they must blast on repeat any of Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 singles of 2000 through their respective stereo’s speakers. This, in turn, forces me to blast all of my much less popular music to drown theirs out. It becomes a vicious circle of escalating sound. And perhaps the very point of loud music is to drown out all thought, fear, and pain. These days, who can bear to sit quietly and ponder life—let alone read a book? Indeed, the folks in this city—and perhaps the folks in every city—seemingly do whatever they can to stifle the natural inclination to think. At least, that is my impression. After all, the act of thought —the very act of reflection —necessarily slows production and consumption. And we mustn’t have that, no, no. Besides, we need not contemplate our lack of fulfillment or our actual worthlessness if we are too busy playing video ...
Read more

Ginny

-
10/24/2001 : Would you believe I was standing beneath the lit marquee of the Music Box Theater this evening, reading an Emily Dickinson chapbook? I was, but I was doing a poor job of it. And, no, I wasn’t there specifically to read poetry. But I might’ve been the first dude to read Dickinson at that particular location. And, no, I wasn’t reading it aloud. * In fairness (to me), I hadn’t thought to read it aloud. I bring a book or a magazine along wherever I go, just in case it rains. Gotta have something to hold open over my head. Can’t have a sudden shower muck up my carefully sculpted helmet of hair. And if I want something to read, I’ll take an umbrella. But seriously, it’s all about the waiting. If city life doesn’t cultivate patience, then it definitely cultivates insanity. If I find myself waiting (anywhere) beyond the walls of my apartment without something to read, I’ll end up gazing at the passersby, instead. They might gaze back. They won’t smile, though. Never mind if ...
Read more

S T R E A M # 3 0

-
Start: The dog did not enjoy the tuna casserole, and by “dog” I do not mean Sally’s pet collie, I means Sally’s husband, Al. When we stop to think about the things that do not matter – which is something we often do – then, when the time comes, we check our watches and eat our respective tuna casseroles. We eat the tuna casseroles because we know Grandma would be sad if we did not. Thus, or hence, or hence-thus, the problem becomes one of consumption. Finally, the problem is ALWAYS one of consumption. What do you think about Al’s dilemma with the tuna casserole? Beets are enjoyed by cats in the winter when strawberries are not in bloom. DO strawberries bloom? No. Yes? No. I wouldn’t know. I am not a strawberry farmer. Who told you otherwise? Who led you astray? And why would you believe his or hers or their words over mine? What I feel the next time we meet when you are not sad with happiness in the tuna casserole. I haven’t – I couldn’t tell you about the last time I ate apple sauce i...
Read more