Friday, David Y, Beau and I went to get raw oysters before the My My Hey Hey art opening. David bought 30 oysters for all of us. They were gone in minutes and we were on the verge of an intense euphoric state that oysters bring shortly after their demise. I just wished I had someone near me to kiss, but the company of friends was good enough.
The opening went well for not being on first Friday. I met a girl at the opening whom I then realized used to skateboard with me in Boulder. I never dared talked to her while skating at Boulder, but I promised to say hello when I saw her the next time at the Denver Skate Park.
Sandy and I then went dancing at Lipgloss. I hadn't a car to use, but Dan was going back to Boulder and offered us a ride in his truck. We got out at the club, urged Dan to come with us, but he was steadfast in just going home.
Sandy and I waited in line So many people were trying to get in, that there were two lines - one for normal entry and even one for people on the guestlist. Very strange. I still feel as if I'm not allowed to have the privilige of cutting everyone in line waiting and just go in, not pay and start dancing. I don't really know how to appreciate such benifits, but it's probably just some weird childhood condition of never having any fringe benifits growing up. It's similar to the way I sometimes feel awkward when someone tells me they care about me. I feel suspicion before acceptance. It's been strengthened recently. You trust someone and that trust just turns to vaporous shit that sticks to you as a cloud above one's head like in comic books.
Sandy and I danced and had wonderful fun just dancing and being silly and working on new dance moves. We decided to just sit down, since Sandy was tired of dancing.
We sat down and talked and were very much into ourselves.
A young woman tapped me on the shoulder and interrupted Sandy and I.
"Excuse me, I don't mean to be disrespectiful, but we need to sit here."
"What?", was my response. I didn't understand why they just didn't just sit someone else. I mean, there's a dozen of large chairs.
A large man came over.
"Look, I have models here, that have just done a fashion show and I need them to get sat down, so you guys need to leave. We have this entire area reserved. So. Go."
This large man was in my face. Inches away. Barking orders. Being disrespectful. I wasn't very drunk and I decided to call his bluff. You can't reserve sections of the chill out area on this night - as far as I know, there was no fashion show, except the one at the Assembly Gallery and if there was, I would have known the people putting it on, at the very least by sight. I took this guy as who he was: someone who thought very highly of himself and very lowly of myself. I had never seen him at the club and I go here weekly. If he wanted me out, the least he could have said was, "Please." But, he didn't. He ordered. And: you do not order me. Not here. Not anywhere.
"Look, I'll get out of this seat, if you get out of my face."
Was all I said. And I meant what I said. I physically could not move from my seat without him moving himself. He did not take this in kindness.
"WHAT?! What the fuck did you say?!"
I repeated myself.
And he repeated himself as well.
I received the first blow to my left upper cheekbone. I can't see anything - it's a nightclub - there's pulsating lights and the air is smoky. I'm sitting down and this guy is hitting me with his fists. He is over me, hitting me with his fists. He gets a few my punches into me. I am yelling, "Stop." I am attempting to wrestle him off of me. I can smell his breadth. He is an angry drunk, not a benevolent drunk.
Many people get him off of me. He is not pleased, but I lose track of him in the crowd.
I don't know what to do and Sandy just holds me for a while. Then I realise: this is my regular club, not his. I know the people the run this night, not him. I look for one of the DJ's. He find's me and asks if I'm coming to the new night on Tuesday. Before I can answer, I give him the five second version of the above.
He asks me to pick him out and we walk over.
We're near to the chairs. I can't see him, but I see two police officers with flashlights. I tell my DJ friend, "I've already gotten arrested once this week, I cannot get into any more trouble". He tells me to GET OUT OF HERE. And I try. I try because I do not want to be arrested twice in one week. I try because even if I'm completely innocent, having been arrested days before will make me guilty.
But the flashlights are on me, blinding me and there's yelling for me to come over.
The cops don't care what happened, they just want me out. They want him out. Which is fine, but I told them they need to make sure that I do not get jumped on my way home, as I have no car. And if I was him: stupid and angry - I'd jump me, because that's how you think when you're not.
They promised me he wouldn't.
No disrespect to the law enforecement of America, but to the idea of promises from cops, given my first hand experience in the last few weeks:
Fuck Promises From Pigs.
I tell the police that, in a much more euphemistic manner and they call a cab for us. The cab comes and we get in. I see the big guy walking the opposite direction with three women - they're not models, I'll tell you that. They were just some girls that like hanging out with someone that hurts, because they feel they are weak and need something near them that does bruise things.
When we got home, Sandy kissed my wounds and put frozen blueberries on the parts that were swollen. I had two cuts on the back of my head - this guy was not that good of an aim, apparently.
I don't want sympathy for the above. Whoever goes into the weekly Britpop/Indie dance night looking for trouble is a completely metally ill individual. I like hanging about this type of place because it is extremely nonviolent - I'm sorry, but you cannot get riled up after listening to, "Hungry Like the Wolf", by Duran Duran. You can't even take yourself seriously dancing to it. It's silly and fun. I'm silly and fun. You... may have an inclination to make out with someone, but that's about it. End of story.
I write the above again not to romanticize the scenario, but to tell whatever is larger than I am in my frail human form that the above and its ilk are not going to stop me or even phase me. They aren't even a problem. That if you want to break my spirit, you better do something worse, like break my back. Because I am not going to stop for something as petty as an overgrown bully. That, as shitty as it was to get the shit kicked out of me, in the big picture, it ain't even going to make a difference. So take another shot. I will not flinch. I dare you.
******
All this raises a point, that I have just thought of and it's another paradox:
Reading Rollins', Get in the Van, he continually repeats a mantra of Greg Ginns: Respect is a two way street. You don't give respect to me, I will not give respect back. The problem with this is, there's no way out - we will continue to disrespect each other, until someone breaks out of the cycle. If you're drunk and arrogant and violent to begin with, the chances you'll get out of this cycle first are minimal and disrespect is something you probably know quite well and understand how to handle it: you remove the other person's disrespect by force. You kill it. You make it bleed so it wishes itself that it was never there.
The entire idea of removal of a targeted, "problem" is clearly not the best answer. It must be cultural. Don't like it? Get it away from you. Smash it. Make it not a problem because it doesn't exist.
Like overreacting about seeing a spider.
The only way around this is to be respectful to begin with - but then again,
I can only control my own thoughts, not someone elses - and I have no want to
control how someone else thinks.
