Sweat Records + Pop Life at the District 10/14/06
Miami
Twinjob
Its 8:30. I’m out the door and in the mildew car on my way to Sweat Record to hang out with Nicole. Sweat (in a back room at churchhills bar) is warm inside and quiet. The bad punk band from the bar is pounding against the walls. Nicole is studying with two friends. W e hug like its been two weeks. It has.
We sit in the hall and suck down a few cigarettes. Her study partner comes out. We talk political science. They are bleary-eyed from the books and I am lazy from the one beer I had at home.
Nicole tells some 12 year old she like her boots. She is so good, building up little girls. What a sweetheart.
Superstar calls me. Shes on her way into the city. I head home to meet her. We sit around. Look at my photo album, talk. I am rallying her over the hump of sleepiness that keeps her home. I change into going out clothes. Tighter jeans, blacker shoes, stenciled shirt. I fix my hair. Superstar says it disappeared. Pomade, the wonders.
My shirt shrank or I got big. I feel like a football player. I cant tell if its cute. Susperstar says not to worry. I do anyway.
She drives. We head to a block party for a gallery opening Superstar heard about. There are bottles in the street, the dj is breaking down and a few cops rolling around.
We go to dunkin donuts for iced coffee.
Still sober. I text with Magic from the other night. He wont be coming out tonight. He must be so much deeper than me to stay in on a Saturday night. I feel shallow. I pinch myself and rally.
We go to the liquor store and stand in line behind this white girl who stands really far from the black folks in front of her. We wait a while for the store guy to run around the store and get peoples orders. You pay through a little sliding metal tray and he puts your liquor down in this metal box with two doors.
When the white girl gets to the window she asks for a bottle of grey goose. I almost ask for her to marry me. But I am still sober so I hold it in I swallow it. My shirt is squeezing the fun from me with each breath.
She pays $45 for the bottle. I decide to meet a rich lady. She’ll buy me expensive liquor and I’ll tell her she is really beautiful.
We get our vodka and head home for the front loading.
The redbull is over powering the vodka. Now I am just nervous. My leg wont stop tapping. My apartment is a mess. I cant do this.
Superstar’s sister, Perfect, and brother, Action come by. We drink quick. I am still too sober for the club. I smoke too much. I feel sick. But I tuck a bandanna into my pocket. I’m ready.
My name on the list and +1 still means we pay $5 each. It is packed. The music is some terrible techno that usually doesn’t come on until after 2 am at Pop Life. It should be indy electro stuff. I apologize to the fam for the bad music. We stand in the courtyard and laugh at some kids and their dancing.
Some faggot is dressed like Liberacie and I am jealous of his gall. I make fun of him. I want to shave his ironic mustache and pull out his terrible braided rat tail. My shirt is way too tight.
I run inside to say hello to Dance Floor Make Out (DFMO). He is drunk-a-dunk-dunk. He wants me to rescue him. I mumble something and walk away.
HISTORY
Dance Floor Make out and I went on a date once. I met him my first night out at Plastik Fantastik. He stared at me. We made out on the dance floor. We all make mistakes. I wasn’t into it. I told him. I was honest and clear. I think it is all good.
I go back to the fam. Superstar is entertained. Action and Perfect look unhappy. We make more jokes about the music, The jokes are getting sadder and sadder. I lost my humor. Superstar is kind and laughs. When did I become a parody of myself?
I run inside to say hello to Jailbait and Sucka. Suacka has a tall lanky boy with straight edge tattoos with her. They met on myspace, He came down from Boston. Poor kid.
Outside again and it is getting time for the fam to leave. I hang tough. I am cute, there are people to work. But really I am not drunk enough for this. I find Jailbait and Sucka and Boy. Sucka is wasted. We see A. Three words no more. Sucka gets introduced by A. to a friend as “the girl from LA.” I have no name. I get no intro. My shirt is definitely too tight tonight.
We go to the bar. No one has money. Jailbait and Sucka work me. I order drinks. Sucka and Jailbait grope my ass because I am “gay and like that sort of thing.” I try to pay with my credit card, cause I am rich or something. Drinks are made, sitting in front of me.
Bartender: $30 minimum on cards.
Me: Ummmmmmm
Bartender: Stare
I take the drinks and eat the limes because I’m not eating much else this week.
We take terrible photos. They try to get me to turn out Boy. I am not their pet. But really I am. Without them I would be alone. I would have no one to hold up in front of me. I would be at home reading a book and not caring.
I run into DFMO in the bathroom line. I tell him his necklace keeps getting bigger. He says he is getting smaller. He tells me I am a bitch. I smile and look away. Whatevs. Not my drama. He follows me back to the dance floor.
We dance. Jailbait conducts some grinding to techno. I turn and dance with Dance Floor Makeout.
I buy two more drinks.
I am finally drunk enough to be here.
And it doesn’t matter.
The music doesn’t move me.
I start hating all of it.
I decide to never go out again.
I want to change my shrit.
Sucka says it’s time to go to another club She is still wasted. I go to close out my tab.
DFMO stands next to me at the bar and:
DFMO: you’re a bitch
Me: What? I cant hear you. The music is too loud.
DFMO: You are a bitch you are playing games with me
Me: No I am not.
DFMO: The games you are playing are why I am still here.
Me: No games. Go home.
He grabs an empty bottle from the counter. He looks into my eyes. And he drops the fucking bottle. It shatters at my feet. He stares at me. I turn my shoulder. This is not my drama.
DFMO: You are playing games. You don’t call me back.
Me: Is that games or is that clarity? I told you, I’m not in to it.
Jailbait comes up behind me. She tries to rescue me like I have rescued her from too many older drunk sleaze balls. She puts her arm around me and tries to pretend we are “together” together. DFMO slits her throat with his eyes. Sucka comes up to intervene. Boy is freaked out standing back.
I wave them back.
Where is the goddamn bartender. I need to get out of here. This is NOT my drama.
DFMO: Those are the games I am talking about.
Me: Her, them?…
Another bottle raised high into the air. It shatters at my feet. I wish for a bouncer. I wish for a thug. I turn from him. I pretend he isn’t there. I am not this mean. I don’t want him to ruin me, here, now, in this shirt.
Finally the bartender. The card. I sign and ignore the price.
No goodbye. We fall out of the crowd and the club. Me, Jailbait, Sucka and Boy.
I tell them I need to go home. They tell me DFMO is crazy. We walk around back to the lot. Some boy is standing with a girl by a car. He shouts out that we shouldn’t leave. Sucka says too bad it sucks inside. The girl next to the boy is the host of the night. Fuck broken bottles. Ruined. I am burning this shirt when I get home.
Drive to another club. $15even when you are on the list my ass. Back to Pop Life. In the car and home.
Twinjob
Its 8:30. I’m out the door and in the mildew car on my way to Sweat Record to hang out with Nicole. Sweat (in a back room at churchhills bar) is warm inside and quiet. The bad punk band from the bar is pounding against the walls. Nicole is studying with two friends. W e hug like its been two weeks. It has.
We sit in the hall and suck down a few cigarettes. Her study partner comes out. We talk political science. They are bleary-eyed from the books and I am lazy from the one beer I had at home.
Nicole tells some 12 year old she like her boots. She is so good, building up little girls. What a sweetheart.
Superstar calls me. Shes on her way into the city. I head home to meet her. We sit around. Look at my photo album, talk. I am rallying her over the hump of sleepiness that keeps her home. I change into going out clothes. Tighter jeans, blacker shoes, stenciled shirt. I fix my hair. Superstar says it disappeared. Pomade, the wonders.
My shirt shrank or I got big. I feel like a football player. I cant tell if its cute. Susperstar says not to worry. I do anyway.
She drives. We head to a block party for a gallery opening Superstar heard about. There are bottles in the street, the dj is breaking down and a few cops rolling around.
We go to dunkin donuts for iced coffee.
Still sober. I text with Magic from the other night. He wont be coming out tonight. He must be so much deeper than me to stay in on a Saturday night. I feel shallow. I pinch myself and rally.
We go to the liquor store and stand in line behind this white girl who stands really far from the black folks in front of her. We wait a while for the store guy to run around the store and get peoples orders. You pay through a little sliding metal tray and he puts your liquor down in this metal box with two doors.
When the white girl gets to the window she asks for a bottle of grey goose. I almost ask for her to marry me. But I am still sober so I hold it in I swallow it. My shirt is squeezing the fun from me with each breath.
She pays $45 for the bottle. I decide to meet a rich lady. She’ll buy me expensive liquor and I’ll tell her she is really beautiful.
We get our vodka and head home for the front loading.
The redbull is over powering the vodka. Now I am just nervous. My leg wont stop tapping. My apartment is a mess. I cant do this.
Superstar’s sister, Perfect, and brother, Action come by. We drink quick. I am still too sober for the club. I smoke too much. I feel sick. But I tuck a bandanna into my pocket. I’m ready.
My name on the list and +1 still means we pay $5 each. It is packed. The music is some terrible techno that usually doesn’t come on until after 2 am at Pop Life. It should be indy electro stuff. I apologize to the fam for the bad music. We stand in the courtyard and laugh at some kids and their dancing.
Some faggot is dressed like Liberacie and I am jealous of his gall. I make fun of him. I want to shave his ironic mustache and pull out his terrible braided rat tail. My shirt is way too tight.
I run inside to say hello to Dance Floor Make Out (DFMO). He is drunk-a-dunk-dunk. He wants me to rescue him. I mumble something and walk away.
HISTORY
Dance Floor Make out and I went on a date once. I met him my first night out at Plastik Fantastik. He stared at me. We made out on the dance floor. We all make mistakes. I wasn’t into it. I told him. I was honest and clear. I think it is all good.
I go back to the fam. Superstar is entertained. Action and Perfect look unhappy. We make more jokes about the music, The jokes are getting sadder and sadder. I lost my humor. Superstar is kind and laughs. When did I become a parody of myself?
I run inside to say hello to Jailbait and Sucka. Suacka has a tall lanky boy with straight edge tattoos with her. They met on myspace, He came down from Boston. Poor kid.
Outside again and it is getting time for the fam to leave. I hang tough. I am cute, there are people to work. But really I am not drunk enough for this. I find Jailbait and Sucka and Boy. Sucka is wasted. We see A. Three words no more. Sucka gets introduced by A. to a friend as “the girl from LA.” I have no name. I get no intro. My shirt is definitely too tight tonight.
We go to the bar. No one has money. Jailbait and Sucka work me. I order drinks. Sucka and Jailbait grope my ass because I am “gay and like that sort of thing.” I try to pay with my credit card, cause I am rich or something. Drinks are made, sitting in front of me.
Bartender: $30 minimum on cards.
Me: Ummmmmmm
Bartender: Stare
I take the drinks and eat the limes because I’m not eating much else this week.
We take terrible photos. They try to get me to turn out Boy. I am not their pet. But really I am. Without them I would be alone. I would have no one to hold up in front of me. I would be at home reading a book and not caring.
I run into DFMO in the bathroom line. I tell him his necklace keeps getting bigger. He says he is getting smaller. He tells me I am a bitch. I smile and look away. Whatevs. Not my drama. He follows me back to the dance floor.
We dance. Jailbait conducts some grinding to techno. I turn and dance with Dance Floor Makeout.
I buy two more drinks.
I am finally drunk enough to be here.
And it doesn’t matter.
The music doesn’t move me.
I start hating all of it.
I decide to never go out again.
I want to change my shrit.
Sucka says it’s time to go to another club She is still wasted. I go to close out my tab.
DFMO stands next to me at the bar and:
DFMO: you’re a bitch
Me: What? I cant hear you. The music is too loud.
DFMO: You are a bitch you are playing games with me
Me: No I am not.
DFMO: The games you are playing are why I am still here.
Me: No games. Go home.
He grabs an empty bottle from the counter. He looks into my eyes. And he drops the fucking bottle. It shatters at my feet. He stares at me. I turn my shoulder. This is not my drama.
DFMO: You are playing games. You don’t call me back.
Me: Is that games or is that clarity? I told you, I’m not in to it.
Jailbait comes up behind me. She tries to rescue me like I have rescued her from too many older drunk sleaze balls. She puts her arm around me and tries to pretend we are “together” together. DFMO slits her throat with his eyes. Sucka comes up to intervene. Boy is freaked out standing back.
I wave them back.
Where is the goddamn bartender. I need to get out of here. This is NOT my drama.
DFMO: Those are the games I am talking about.
Me: Her, them?…
Another bottle raised high into the air. It shatters at my feet. I wish for a bouncer. I wish for a thug. I turn from him. I pretend he isn’t there. I am not this mean. I don’t want him to ruin me, here, now, in this shirt.
Finally the bartender. The card. I sign and ignore the price.
No goodbye. We fall out of the crowd and the club. Me, Jailbait, Sucka and Boy.
I tell them I need to go home. They tell me DFMO is crazy. We walk around back to the lot. Some boy is standing with a girl by a car. He shouts out that we shouldn’t leave. Sucka says too bad it sucks inside. The girl next to the boy is the host of the night. Fuck broken bottles. Ruined. I am burning this shirt when I get home.
Drive to another club. $15even when you are on the list my ass. Back to Pop Life. In the car and home.
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