Tuesday, November 08, 2005

A continuation of our thrilling narrative

So. I go to meet this joker in Fisher's, a nice bar and restaurant downtown. I'm still wearing my same clothes from earlier, only dirtier. The classier patrons give me the hairy eyeball. He shows up in a velvety top and nice shoes and insists on paying for my one drink and then decides to tag along to the "art opening." I put that in scare quotes because it was only an opening in the loosest sense of the word, since we were the only people there. Imagine the awkwardness of an under-attended junior high school dance, subtract the music, and place the whole scene in somebody's unattractive apartment, and you get the zeitgeist of the evening. And, to make things more stupid and awkward, Rich impulsively purchases the cheapest piece of art off the wall and presents it to me as a gift. Verrry impressive. It's still in the backseat of my car waiting to appreciate in value.

Overwhelmed by despair and ennui, I dropped my new friend off at his hotel and went to see if I could drag Steve out of his building, but he was enraptured by the Ultimate Fighting Championship on TV and was unable to move. UFC, as far as I can tell, is like boxing but with all the dirty moves boxers aren't allowed to use, like kicking and grabbing and squeezing the life out of the other guy. Pretty violent. So I was feeling low enough to give up my original plan for the evening, which was to eventually drive to Harrisburg and go dancing. I was in the car on the way home when this big bubble of sadness finally popped and I let out a loud, prolonged scream and suddenly decided i was going to take myself out on a goddam date and nothing was going to stop me.

I ended up at Stallions, a gay club on Third Street in Harrisburg with a funny scene. It's pretty comfortable but the main action seems to be along the edges of the dance floor where people stand and watch the dancers and the ceilings are kind of low so it's slightly claustrophobic. There was an amazing-looking trannie with scraps of fabric in beautiful autumnal colors hanging off her, sort of a caribbean or african type costume, very proud and haughty. A flamboyantly drunk man holding a pitcher of beer grabbed my arm and yelled, "Oh, you are just a CUTIE PATOOTIE!" and kept repeating that throughout the evening, to a point of total ridiculousness where I sort of started to feel like, yes, I AM a cutie patootie, that is what I am. The music wasn't amazing but oh well, I danced with Mr. Drunk's friend Lois for a while. She would just shift from foot to foot and occasionally wave her arms and meanwhile I was giving it my all, doing spins and slides and dramatic moves where I'd look erotically over my shoulder and then drop into a yoga lunge and then jump up and clap my hands. Things went on like this for two hours and I was sweating buckets, probably flinging my hot perspiration on everybody around me every time I turned my head, and eventually my new friends moved not-so-diplomatically to another part of the dance floor. Mission accomplished!

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