I'm not writing this for any reason but to record what has happened in the past few weeks. I usually come out with some sort of conclusion, some sort of lesson learned in a very prime time comedy series fashion. I've just realized that my life has become quite random. To be a little less surface, I guess, deep down, I want to really produce some good art and am having trouble with that. It may be all in my head, but, some may say that good art is the product of ones life experiences, or at least, your reactions to such experiences, the filter you run everything through. I'm also not in the mood to romanticizing my life right now.
So here we go.
July 15th was Jack's 21st birthday. There's not much to tell about that, but Jack and I, along with Megan and Courtney saw The Raveonettes at the Bluebird. I bought Jack many drinks and Jack got awfully drunk. This isn't too much of a different to what he does for fun anyways, but it is fun to notice the little inconsistencies and nuances one does if they're not accustomed to buying drinks at a music venue.
For example, Jack bought a double shot of Jack Daniels, which put him back nine bucks. If anything, it seems that I am going to be drinking more, when I hang out with Jack, since he'll be hanging out where they sell liquor. Perhaps this will be my downfall; let's all hope... not.
(Randomly, someone just admitted that they tried to masturbate for the first time at the table on the other side of the coffee shop; how quaint. They seemed pretty stoked about it.)
The Swayback opened up for The Raveonettes, which was yet another chance for me to see them. I was fairly taken away by how tight they've become as a group; every time I've seen them, their practice shows through. One day, everyone will think I'm hip because I knew them before they were multinational super stars.
The Warlocks played after them. I don't think I've ever seen such an act of a group since I last watched the Ziggy Stardust movie. Their band has seven members: two drummers, two guitarists, a bassist, a keyboardist and the lead singer - also on guitar. It sounds pretty cool right? A bunch of kids, playing a fairly simple rythym, going on their own little tangents, their own little personalities showing through, held together by the massive wall of percussion, which also gets to go on it's own little journey. They had their own lights. They had a smoke machine. They all had goofy, mop-top haircuts.
It's gets better. Each one had a stock of poses they'd do throughout the show. The keyboardist would tap her foot every so coolly, as she patted a tamborine on her hip; one of the guitarists always seem to have to fiddle a dial or two on his amp, he'd crouch down, back toward the crowd, look down at the guitar, fiddle a dial, and look back at the amp; The other guitarist seemed to like to raise his guitar in the air and wave his hand to play a cord- the strobe light hitting all the valleys of his meager frame; the lead singer chose to mostly bounce slowly up and down in unison with his own strumming. He had the help of a rainbow-colored light in back of him, that splashed multicolored lines of light in a ray over the entire band.
Did it work? Meh, a few songs it did. The band seem to keep together in some seriously good, moody, almost perfect makeout music. The rest of the time, I was a bit lost in what they were doing; too droney, the songs too similar to each other.
Before the main act, I caught up with Courtney, (zipper girl) and asked about a rumor I heard, mainly about an orgy that went down at Melissa's house. No such thing took place she insisted; mostly just a huge makeout session, which isn't an event to even voyage through the grapevine for her. Hell, I've made out with her, drunk in a hot tub, in the pouring rain, with about five other guys.... naked.
The Raveonettes came on, and were alright as an act. They're dubbed as something like, "The new Garage sound", whatever that means. All their songs are in the same key, so they too get a bit repetitive, but they had a really fond liking of Jack Kerouac and his ideas of spontaneous prose, and I dig that. Besides the lead singer had a tattoo of Kerouac himself and the bassist is hot.
After the show, I gave Jack his birthday present of a pint of Jack Daniels and a six pack of Red Stripe. He thanked me and stumbled to someone's car.
That Friday, I sat a night at the Pirate Gallery. The RMCAD "Collective" was having a show, which I was a part of. I love these opportunities, because it gives me a chance to act like my stereotype. And that, I did. I decided to wear all black and dye my hair blue. I thought that the night would be somewhat slow, but it so happened that there was an art opening across the street, a theatre festival next to that, and a full on church carnival a block away. I was lucky to find parking. I don't think anything sold, and I locked up the place around 10:30 to go and eat pancakes at Tom's Diner.
The waiter at Tom's got me mighty caffeinated, saying something how Caffeine in general is mighty addictive and there's is more like Crystal Meth. I decided I wanted to go dancing, so I hopped a few blocks to The Onyx and danced my little heart out. I have to say, I have no idea how these kids dance, but I try to play along. The Onyx attracts the gothy crowd, which I'm not really about, except for my liking in Joy Division tunes, which is oh-so proto-goth; death rock it was called shortly after, well, the lead singer killed himself. I do like to see what people that are different from me do. I figure it's basically my job. I'm here to observe and then react. Or just laugh. Or play along.
The next day, Phil, also known as the disgruntled janitor of my school, was a part of a gallery opening. This one featured basically "underground" (whatever that is... basement janitors?) art... mostly illustration and commercial stuff. The show was held in a hair salon I guess, odd. I met up with Jason, Jenny and a few of their friends randomly. I also saw Phil and his work, which is funny, editorial and top notch as his style goes.
Before the show ended, everyone except Phil went downstairs and we danced goofy-like; and how couldn't you? A few things spun: Ballroom Blitz, Take On Me, Ca Plane Pour Moi (Plastic Bernard) and more I can't remember. I taught Jenny how to Charleston and I caught my former swingdance instructor watching us from the top of the stairs. Silly.
We all went upstairs to hang out and I brought out my plastic "love" cuffs I found at the ARC thrift store one year. I have a little going joke, where I start talking to someone and secretly slip the cuffs around their wrists and start walking somewhere, while asking, "Where are we going?". Usually my... victim wrigglings in surprise, not realizing how cheap the handcuffs are. I did this to everyone I could find of the opposite sex. I think Jenny egged me to do it for real and started picking out new victims walking around. I spotted one I liked and went for the kill.
I started walking and talking and slipped the cuffs on. She didn't seem to mind and I followed her into a high class bar across the street of the gallery on Marion. Her friends came in shortly after and I bought a round of drinks. I asked her if I could draw her with a pen on a napkin, so oddly lame. I showed her the drawing and she drew back in disgust.
I swear, I don't know what people think someone with a napkin and a pen, drawing only with the support of their other hand is going to produce, but it's not going to be a Fresco by Raphael.
I told her I would try again and would give it to her, if she'd do something for me. She said she'd let me handcuff her some more. I was game.
We moved from that bar to the Streets of London Pub; where it seemed all the mod rockers hang out with their mopeds et al. It's a bit more down to earth than say, an Old Chicago or, a Joe's Crabshack in terms of "fitting the portrayed image". Beer is beer, it would be funny if people went there to live the pub experience just because of the name. I bought my victim another beer and finished the drawing. I guess she was more pleased with this one, and she stuck it down her pants, since she had no pockets.
To be honest, I was getting bored with my captured date; she was much too drunk to be of any fun and I guess I wasn't feeling this like, amazing bond between us, but I hung out with her and her friends and bit more. I think she was older than I thought she was; hovering near 30. The only thing I know about her was that she works in Marketing... in Breckenridge.
When the "pub" closed, I tagged along in the back of a pickup truck to some random warehouse party on Lawrence. Apparently, it was 80's night. I talked to some girls that looked Cyndi Lauper-ish, and they basically became annoyed and verbal about this annoyance so I left them alone. I love when I can taste the Suburban on someone.
I tagged alone shortly after in a cab to get back to my car. I didn't really so goodbye to Victim or her friends. I guess there was no need.
The next day I went to the Wheelbarrow to partake in the viewing of a Zombie Movie. The Wheelbarrow is a gallery on 36th and Brighton. This wasn't any normal Zombie Movie, this was a Japanese Zombie Movie. It makes all the difference. You have the same predictable plot, but the heroes have cool electronic gadgetry and know various martial arts.
There weren't many people at the showing, I guess there were other things going on that day, notably, the last hometown show of Planes Mistaken For Stars at the Bluebird. I almost left before the movie when I heard that, but I felt bad. The only people there was a few people that lived at the gallery and a touring band that was playing after the movie; a few of whom were playing Scrabble, the other was doodling in a sketchbook.
After the movie, Boy Howdy played. They're sort of interesting since they buy thrift store clothes and screen their own designs on them. They're also interesting, if not a bit frightening, in that they all wear capes, and nothing else buy Speedos. I wasn't sure if any of them were stuffed, but the bassist had a swell that would beat out Jack. The lead singer, one of the residents at the gallery, had on what looked like a mask of a tiger instead of, or shall I say, including the speedo. They sounded awful, but I give them four stars for stage presence. Dada!
I don't know if I made it to school the next day.
On Tuesday I actually did. I think the technology dude at the school got pissed at me for taking some speakers to use in my studio space and now I'm on technology probation; which means I can't use any of the computers in school. This is interesting, since I have a paid bill of over $6,000 every semester saying I don't have technology probation. My school is getting a bit lame about this kind of stuff.
I used to break in to the old school all the time, especially on weekends, play my music as loud as I want, paint with oil paints even. It seemed that I had a long rope in which to perhaps hang myself. Now the school thinks it's a real school, and I can't borrow a cheap $10 pair of speakers from the closest PC. I'm honestly running out of reasons to go to Art School if it's going to be so damn conservative. Art School... isn't that an oxymoron?
I quickly forgot about that, since Jack had called me up to tell me that none other than Mr Pacman was hosting a fashion show of all things at a place called 60 South.
I met up with Jack at a dive bar next to 60 South with Rudy and Melissa. We drank $1.75 PBR's and waited a bit before we all went next door for the show. Rudy let me in on the secret that Planes Mistaken For Stars last hometown show wasn't last Sunday, but would be this Friday at Monkey Mania and that we should all go.
I felt cool again.
The dance floor was converted into a runway. Mr Pacman came out donning a blue jump suit and moon walking boots, with a helmet, complete with wraparound visor, he must of had many cups of coffee, since he was moving like no sprite I have ever seen before.
The show itself was slightly silly. A few models would come out in scandalously loose clothing and then... a monster! would break through the curtain and Mr Pacman with the help of the Mayor of Pac City (who was co hosting) would have to battle the offending brute to allow the models to keep going. At the end so many monsters came out that Mr Pacman made them all do exercises to keep them in tip top, monster shape.
All my friends lamed out and went home after the show. I stayed and danced. Mr Pacman claim to fame is the use of a special mobile Commodore 64 with custom synthesizer chips to give his music that, oh so from the 80's sound. They played a bit of that and bit more stuff like that. The DJ kept fucking the beat up and it was entirely hard to dance to.
A girl started dancing with me, right when the theme song to Despratley Seeking Susan starting playing. She said something on how I was a good dancing and that and her friends didn't dance that much. We sort of hit it off and walked outside to talk.
We talked about writing and art and orgies and Scrabble. I left the show with a swap of numbers and an invite to a sex-themed Scrabble party. Can you spell, lascivious?
Wednesday, I looked at apartments and found one I liked on 11th and Clarkson. Total beatnik crash pad, way cheap, way near everything. To celebrate the find, I went skating at the Westminster skate park. Fifteen minutes into that, I fell on my hip fairly badly and found myself with sharp pains with each step.
The girl from Tuesday actually called me that night asking if I wanted to hang out sometime. I told her I wanted to go to the Art Museum on Saturday and she was down. Wow, alex nabs a date. I must check the alignment of certain star systems.
Friday saw me at Rudy and Melissa's apartment, waiting for Rudy to get home from work so we could go to the Planes show. Rudy works at the local record store and Melissa works at a Vitamin Cottage. They have two cats. I drove both of them to Monkey Mania. I couldn't believe how many people were there! The last time I was there, there was perhaps 8 people. I had gone after seeing a movie with Jack and a few of his coworkers. They left after seeing the place was dead. I stayed and saw a short Asian girl play the guitar, a bass drum, high hat, as well as a harmonica and sing; all with a banjo accompaniment; doing Johnny Cash and Paul Newman covers. I was in the back row, which was also the second row. I love little gems like Monkey Mania.
Before I went in, I checked out yet another gallery opening at the swanky Cordell Taylor gallery. My critque of the show is a single, eh. I did meet up with alex, Jason, Eric, Carla, that pretty girl from 3D Design class, and a few others. alex was going to the show too. After a bit hob nobbing, I went back to Monkey Mania, paid my $5.00, got the number, "99" writing on my hand in Sharpy and entered. I met up with alex right away. He had the number, "66", written in Sharpie on him and I thought that was just weird.
I watched some of the opening bands with alex. I looked to my right and thought I saw one of the models whom I pretty sure has a crush on me. She seemed shorter than I remember. She passed close to use, noticed alex and gave him a big hug, and then gave me another hug in quick succession. The entire night she seemed very flirtatious with me and I was wondering if by the end of the night, we were going to sleep together. The model sleeping with the artist? What an awesome stereotype; I am all for this.
Planes Mistaken For Stars played a pretty good set. As music goes, they didn't have the whole feeling for me as a group like I felt for The Cramps or even The Rollins Band-playing-Black Flag-covers-with Keith Morris had. It may because their sound is either simpler or far more complicated. It must be a post modernist condition; the lack of narrative and such.
Being their last hometown show, the entire place was intensely electrified, and muggy as well. The crowd was simply out of control, acting as just one sweaty blob of person. Plane's equipment kept breaking, which broke the flow of the entire show, but whatever.
The model that I have alluded to gave alex and I a ride to the after party, which was dead, and a ride back to our cars. I got dropped off first, after she kept talking about having to get to work by 5 am (it was 3:30 am) and how she was going to sleep in her car in the parking lot instead of driving back to Arvada (oh tear). alex told her she could crash at his house and she seemed all for that.
Fucker stole my woman.
It was really alright. I found out just today (Monday) that something did in fact happen between them, but nothing serious, and alex had the gaul to actually tell his ex girlfriend who lives in Florida about it. He then told me he's going to give me her number, because he's, "not ready for this". Just what I need, a hand out. He didn't know what I'm about to tell you. He may never know.
I went to sleep at around 4:30 am and got up on Saturday at 9:00 am for a figure drawing session at DU. Afterwards, I had my Art Museum mini date and hung out afterwards at the girl's swanky apartment on Poet's row.
She's completely different from me it seems. I found out she's 27 and she's in a band. That's fucking cool. She was too lazy to actually get food, so she ordered some from a delivery service. To pass the time, she asked me if I wanted to make out. So we did. The food came and we ate it and some of her friends came by.
They all popped and snorted Xanax and drank wine and such which I found really funny and I didn't partake in. When her friends left, we fucked and did the post-quoital thing till around 9:30 pm. It's been a hell of a long time since I've done that, but it seemed really odd, since it was the whole, doesn't mean a thing, thing. I feel sort of Charles Bukowski-ish describing it like this, but if anything, it was a nice reset of the alex machine.
I worked the rest of that Saturday on freelance stuff. This then spilled to Sunday and thus ended my random weekend.
I feel really lame and dumb to just spill my life events like this; each night could have been a writing inb prose and be a beautiful story in itself. I guess it's better to get something down than nothing at all.
Sketches, sketches.
