Last Friday, I felt absolutely unfocused and without a speck of motivation to do the piles of school work and work work, so I looked around to see if any shows were playing and luckily there was: The Red Elvises. I had never heard of them before, but the term "Rockabilly" and "Russian" were in close proximity to their promotional band photo of the three members posing naked, hidden only by their instruments. It was a cheap show as well and located just a few blocks from my apartment at the Bluebird. Fifteen minutes before the show, I called someone I never met and asked if she wanted to see the show. She did.
I met Sarah between the Bluebird and the 711 I had to visit to get the last 20 bucks any ATM will allow me to get out of my checking account. After that withdraw, I had exactly $6.28 and two overused credit cards to my name. Ramen is going to be a friendship I'll need to revive. Upon meeting Sarah, I noticed that she was strikingly pretty, and absolutely uninterested in my sexually. Ah, the way a guy thinks.
The Red Elvises came on after a crappy opening band and they rocked. They made fun of everything that dealt with Rock 'n Roll, or rather, ROKENROI - They swayed their guitars in unison to the beat, the lead singer was wearing pants from Def Leopard's estate sale and the Bassist wore silk, leopard print pajamas and dyed his hair to match. After each song, they'd yell something like "You can't stop the Rock!" and then sing something in Russian, or even Jewish folk songs the likes of which haven't been heard at this decibel since the Jewish Elvis, Neil Diamond took to the stage.
Saturday, I picked up the work on a painting that I tried to start Friday. One of the stupidest things about being in art school is that you get labeled by your peers and professors. I have been labeled, what they call a "Figurative" painter; this means I draw naked people in precise detail. I hate labels and decided to trip up everyone by doing something incredibly abstract. My problem with abstract paintings is that they suck usually and they seem to take absolutely no time. It's the old saying "The viewer has to get smarter as the art gets dumber". Post Modernism is this weird thing that allows anything to pass as art. At 10pm, I actually started to paint the damn thing; it's made of 144 unique squares, of varying intensity, layed out on a 2' by 2' piece of some kind of scrap wood I found outside.
Sunday, I worked on it some more, and the same after school Monday, which I stayed up till Tuesday morning to finish before the critique. My hands were so sore and tired from painting this, I gave up on using brushes all together and would just mix and put on colors with my fingers, smudging the with a closed fist. It came out really well, something you must see in person. Each layer has a different transparency that you can see perhaps 3 or 4 levels deep in some areas. I've shown it to a few people, and everyone wants to touch it. Which they do. Which you aren't supposed to do. Ever.
On the busride to school, I saw a red van with the words "The Red Elvises" painted on. Coincidance?
I actually slept through the critique, wasted from the previous day. I didn't even show my piece. Instead of being labeled an artist, I'm probably labeled a slacker now. Great. There is no calming sound than a fellow student bull shitting something they threw together an hour before the class. I can't stand work done this way and this must be the root of why art out there is over such a low bar. I'll fix that.
Wednesday, the Violent Femmes came to town again and I decided to see them. I wrote a note to someone at school (a pretty girl, of course) saying they need to go with me and they wrote a note back saying "no", or rather "gee I'm busy, you gave me 3 hours of notice, what's wrong with you?" but nicer sounding words. In the note I wrote I told her that I needed a girl to go with so I wouldn't get harassed and called a pussy or things to that extent from, the likes of (Juice) Jack. I ended up going with Jack.
Jack's only 20, so we had to sit in the balcony of the Ogden, which sucks. Before the show, he had me buy beer. I bought Red Stripe because they were out of PBR and we drank some at my apartment and then he hid some behind a random building that we picked up and drank before the show. It was like being in highschool again and doing all the things I didn't do. And now we were going to see the Violent Femmes.
They're old.
I saw them in Vail and Amy and I snuck back stage to get their autograph and to promptly get kicked out. It has to be said that having a late 30's, early 40's guy sing about getting his dad to give him the car (Tonight), is just oddly nostalgic. The Femmes look like they're bored playing songs they wrote 20 years ago with 20 years less experience playing their instruments. I kept myself busy trying to get Jack to sneak downstairs which he didn't do, so I ditched him for the encore, telling him I'd meet him outside afterwards.
I randomly got tangled with a girl that started to play my hat covered head as a drum. I've been having odd luck meeting people at shows. We had the "VFemmes Moment", which everyone has had, even if they didn't know it. Jenny's is bouncing on a friend's trampoline when she was 12 while Blister in the Sun was playing, Jack's was actually in third grade, he would play American Music again and again, fast forwarding to the part that goes "I need a date to the Prom"; he did a good impression of how Gordon sings, "Nobody, go to the Prom, with me? Baaaaaaby". Pussy.
One of my VFemmes moments was making out with a beautiful girl the summer after highschool, listening to the Add It Up CD, a friend told me to get, before I knew all the songs I liked were from the same people. We were listening to "Kiss Off" and both stopped suffocating ourselves in each other's faces to mouth "I hope you know that this will go down on your permanent record" to each other. I had the same moment with this unknown girl at the show. She told me she wanted prints of the pictures and wanted my phone number because she knew I wouldn't call her. I like this girl already. The bassist, Brian was signing autographs after the show and she borrowed his pen to get my number and give me hers. Brian looked a bit quizzical, thinking she wanted it to get his Jon Handcock. Oh no, I'm the Rock Star tonight.
I went outside to look for Jack, who had ditched me. It gets nippy in the Denver October Evenings, and I looked pathetic in my size small t-shirt. I like wearing shirts that are just a bit too small for me, it shows off the nipple rings.
Yet another girl came up to me and stated the obvious and her friend offered to give me a ride home, which I took for some reason. We first went to a Hippy bar and she bought me a beer and we looked at all the hippies around us while listening to Phish, Phish cover bands and the Dead. I found out she was a sign maker and I swear, I've seen her before while walking near Santa Fe Ave., putting up a sign. Coincidance? A sign?
We had a gay time, but I found out she had a boyfriend, fresh from prison. She did tell me if she wasn't hitched, we would be getting hot and sweaty together, if that's a consolation. We finished our beer and we walked to her apartment. Her boyfriend had ditcher her at the show and he was the only one with the keys to the apartment. Hoping he was there, she tapped on the window. No answer. She called him on my phone. No answer. I was about the say "well, gee, if ya need ta, you can stay at my house (snicker snicker), but she tried the outside door, which was unlocked, and then the inside door, which was also unlocked. In the apartment, I noticed that she had a black and white Fender Stratocaster, just like me, Coincidance?
Her friend drove me home and I went to sleep much too late than my bedtime should be.
The next day, after school, I saw David Sedaris, author of Naked and Me Talk Pretty One Day. He's one of the most satirical writers out there and everyone should read at least one of his books. I called Cat up and I met her there with a friend of hers and we sat at the tippidy top of the temple Buell Theatre taking it all in. David's voice is enough to cause a small riot, but his fucked up family life provides the hot air for him to breath with.
Right before the show, we realized that it had been almost exactly a year since we were dating each other and we gave each other a sneering eye, as if to relive those times together in a split second; the same way people say you relive your whole life just before you die.
We were talking before the show, catching up on what we were up to. I was talking about myself, naturally and told her about this grafitti comission I'm going to go for. She didn't think that would fit me, she saw me as an abstract painter. Now I don't know what to do about what people think I am.
Cat had to leave early to pick up her father and brother from the airport, but I stayed for the end and afterwards, for the book signing, which took ages but it was nice to meet an author of a book I've read, since all my favorite bands and literary authors are dead.
I went to sleep with a head buzzing and wondering how I paid for all of this cosmopolitan gatherings and what I would do next weekend.
Yet another girl came up to me and stated the obvious and her friend offered to give me a ride home, which I took for some reason. We first went to a Hippy bar and she bought me a beer and we looked at all the hippies around us while listening to Phish, Phish cover bands and the Dead. I found out she was a sign maker and I swear, I've seen her before while walking near Santa Fe Ave., putting up a sign. Coincidance? A sign?
Right before the show, we realized that it had been almost exactly a year since we were dating each other and we gave each other a sneering eye, as if to relive those times together in a split second; the same way people say you relive your whole life just before you die. 
