Secret Pop

May 11, 2005

Oh, what a night.
My friend Evan is touring with Dick Dale at the moment, and I told him that if he was to have Dick Dale call my cell phone and play Misirlou into it, I would worship the both of them for the rest of my days. And tonight, while I was in workshop, Dick Dale left a private performance of Misirlou on my voicemail, and I think that is some cool ass shit.
I discovered this when I was leaving workshop and on my way to Birds, at which time I found a parking spot on Cheremoya, and I was walking past a parking enforcement guy, who asked me if the car he was about to ticket was my vehicle. And I said, "No, I just parked over there." And he said, "You're gorgeous. Thank you." And I couldn't quite tell if he was just applauding the legality of my parking, so I just smiled and went on my way, and he said, "You heard what I said, right?" And I said, "Yes. Thanks." And he smiled and said, "Unbelievable." And I don't know what was so very awesome about my look tonight, but I suppose I recognize that I shouldn't shrug these things off entirely. Later, when I was driving home and that song When You're Fat by Bruce McCulloch came up in my iPod rotation, I thought, "Yeah. I guess I don't have it so bad."
Traci and I went to Birds and were having a great little chat over a shared veggie burger when one of those generic red glass candle bowls came tumbling over the ledge, shattering my glass of Jameson, shattering itself, and splattering white wax all over my face, my décolletage, and three articles of clothing of which I was particularly fond. This girl popped up above the ledge in some semblance of concern as I screamed, "What the fuck!" She was very apologetic. She had only just touched it with her hand. Were we okay? We were, but honestly, there is no plausible excuse for knocking one of those candles over. It was situated well out of range of normal arm movement. Unless she was standing up in her booth and flailing around in some amount of ridiculousness. I do not feel at all forgiving. I wish I had made a point of remembering her face, beacuse if I ever see her again, I would like to throw something melted in it.
The hostess comped us our everything and brought us replacements, and that was all very nice. But I still have a ruined outfit and a sense of indignance that in the last few times I've been to Birds I've lost my favorite digital camera, missed out on a party I should totally have gone to, and gotten spattered in a dangerous portion of hot wax. Perhaps the universe is converging on this one locus to let me know it's not where I should be spending much of my free time. And that's a shame, because Laurie and Bob are so unbelievably nice, and the drinks they pour are so unbelievably generous. I guess it's awesome that I pay so little attention to the universe and its cryptic means of messaging me. For my money, if the universe wants to tell me something, it can pick up the phone and call. Dick Dale did, after all.

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