From Refreshments to Girl on Girl....

After smashing my janky-ass, too-expensive-to-be-so-glitchy sidekick phone into about 4 or 5 large pieces on the floor, I purchased a slimmer, simpler, more affordable model. It was a step I’ve been trying to make for nearly half a year-having been dealing with a sick phone that turned itself off constantly, went for hours at a time on the “white screen of death,” and often delivered text messages hours sometimes weeks late. But I knew downsizing meant losing the keyboard.

Ah, the keyboard. That wonderful device that allows my thumbs to type compact poetry at nearly 60 words per minute. I used nearly 400 texts per month, and though I know that doesn’t compare with some social butterflies that easily rack 1000-3000/month, I think of those as 400 mini works of art. The text is a literary joy, a revolutionary new form of communication that suits ME just fine. I don’t need to talk to most of you folks. Really. Its just too much. Give me a leedle keyboard and all yo numbers and I’m happy as a bumblebee.

Well now, its bye-bye keyboard. Now I utilize one of those “dinosaur” phones, the one that slides up to reveal a standard 12 button keypad, where I must plunk plunk plunk my way to an F, I, or L. Trying to make a “#” symbol involves like twenty-something plunk plunk plunkings and it kills me cuz is that more than simply typing N-U-M-B-E-R? (12 plunks, 14 if you include the question mark.) All in all, less texting for me, and trying to restrict my phone time during the day. It sucks, but it sure beats paying too much for a banky phone, even if it did have that keyboard to freedom.

More!

I’ve been to a musical show every night for three nights! Boy I sound like such a party girl right now!! Monday night I saw The Refreshments or known now as Roger Cline and the Peacemakers.

One or two songs in a tree falls a block away cutting power to thousands of Atlantians. The room, packed with a few hundred eager fans, weren’t about to leave just cuz of a little power outage. The mob went on singing the words to the song, right to the very end. The cheering is frenzied cuz its dark as hell, and that was cool as hell. Not cool cool, but like groovy cool. Around the corners of the bar, candles appear in corners, and the bargirls start selling a helluva lot cold beer. The fact is, it’s only gonna get warmer from here, both the beer, and the venue, so you might as well get to drinking it and rockin out. Starting off a song was difficult, as only the front few rows could hear the acoustic lead guitar. So the trumpeter came out with a famous introduction to one of our most beloved songs that begins “Here comes, another song about Mexico.” Everyone, including myself, knew every word, and we sang loudly as the temperature rose. Soon everyone was wet as hell, everyone’s clothes clung drenched to all types of body parts. By the looks of it, (and you could see, because I suppose someone from the kitchen grabbed a potato, and had hooked one desk lamp up to it, and set it up behind the drummer, providing the only light in the whole damn place, aside from the candles and one guy with a flash light in the back that kept it right on the lead singer’s face), anyways, by the looks of it, everyone was having a good time. No body left, the bar was doing great business, and if there WAS any grumbles, it dissipated by the time the popsicles arrived. Not enough for the slow, but enough to almost drown out the lead singers un plugged acoustical guitar with the sounds of scores of people crinckling and discarding their wrappers.

I suppose they also went to the grocery store for potatoes, cuz a few more songs in the lead singers guitar kicked into life, and with a sweatier then ever renewed and refreshed sense of determination, the crowd sang and grooved on. A miracle of spuds may have happened after that, because then the bass thumped on amp juice, and so did the electric guitar. For several blissful songs we had the entire band juiced up on miracle power, lit even by a few stage lights, singing a seemingly endless supply of know-the-words- classics. The electricity failed again though, and they recovered the use of their instruments several times against the fickle power gods. Everyone wanted the song Mekong, and it was delayed several times in hopes that everything would kick on again, but it didn’t seem to be happening. We were back in “we-can’t-hear-or-see-shit-mode”, when finally the guitarist started strumming the opening chords to Mekong. The power of the crowd, getting set to enjoy a favorite song in a chaotic but ridiculously wonderful environment, willed up one great undeniable surge or energy, when all at once we heard clear as crystal the strumming of our lead man’s acoustic. The next riff was to be played by an absent lead guitarist, who had figured it futile to play another song perhaps, since no one could hear him. He came out after being summoned by name by a wet and wild audience. Soon they were all out playing, the crowd sang with all the love of pilgrims words they had memorized ages ago. The show was awesome, the band fucked off. And we went downstairs to find the electricity had suddenly reappeared. A/C kicked in, and we mingled under cold vents as people got rides in taxies, and got rides from strangers, and got rides from wet, nasty, friends. The lead guitarist was talking to people, and invited me and a few friends into the Atlanta Room, where he played informally for about 20 people. We found ourselves in a blissfully frigid room enjoying our own private encore, all the while making requests for Johnny cash, Tom Waits, and others. After that, the band/groupies/whoever, was loading equipment from the stage upstairs to the tour bus. I talked to the guitarist a little more. Explained to him that I had given my first BJ to the song “banditos,” and he laughed and we went back in the bus and I gave him a blow job. Just kidding, that didn’t happen. I mean, I DID give my first BJ listening to the refreshments at the tender age of 15, and I DID tell him so, but no, I didn’t do all the rest of that stuff.

Tuesday, it was back to the same venue for a highly different experience. The place was mercifully air conditioned, first of all. Five different bands played only a few songs each, and Comcast on Demand was there filming it. My friend played upright bass for Atomic Boogie, and they really got the crowd moving. My butt just lost control and started a shimmyin and a shakin….woo! Methinks the camera stopped for a while on me, as someone was shining a bright light in my face as I bopped along. It wasn’t as crowded, but the place was still fullish with interesting looking people: rockabilly girls, punks, and hard death metal looking folks. Was really fun going back stage and seeing what its like back there. But I called it an early night once my friend’s band was done…the band after was NOT my cup of tea, sounding like alternative heavy metal…ick.

Wednesday my friend, a very young and gifted saxophonist, played at Centennial Olympic Park. Oooooh snap! It was groooovY!! It was some damn good jazz going on and the crowd was lovin it. My friend jams on his saxophone with the know-how and style of someone twice his age. Cries of “go White Boy go!” could be heard through out the predominantly black audience. I felt really lucky to know this kid. Walking around with him between sets was like walking around with a celebrity. People kept shaking his hand, introducing themselves, praising him. He loved it. I know I did! I’ll post some of that jazz on youtube soon!

I watched Even Cowgirls Get the Blues and it was so so good. The book was infinatly better, as always, but the director did a great job of adapting the screenplay to get the wacky feel of the book. Unfortuatly, much of the dialog sounded merely like memorization of narrative, which it was, and only the Chink did a good job of making it sound spontaneous. The girl on girl action was hot. Can’t top that.

Let’s end with girl on girl action. Bye people…