Here Comes the Sun
Tender Buttons from the Field
Tonight I went out to meet my old friend Erin. I haven't seen Erin since WVU in 1997. We recently re-connected on Friendster. She lives in Brooklyn now but was in town so we met at Buffalo Billiards. On my way there, I saw some car that reminded me of a guy I went to law school with. Let's call him Sporty. So I thought of Sporty on the metro and somehow convinced myself that I would see him. For the record, I rarely think of Sporty and hadn't seen him in almost a year. So I got off the metro to meet Erin and her pal Kim, and the first person I see is Sporty. He's chatting on his cell outside Front Page, above the bar where I was going. So, in case you are wondering, I am so totally fucking psychic. Or something like that.
We had several drinks at Buffalo Billiards, and Erin proved she was totally hardcore by drinking Johnnie Walker black label. On ice. After about two hours, the group we were with decided they wanted to go to Cafe Citron, which I shall now refer to as COLMOBJ, meaning Clothed Orgy with Latin Music and Occasional Bon Jovi. Erin's friend Kim, a professional cellist, had some ferocious energy and amassed a following with her non-stop dancing action. I threw more elbows than usually necessary on a Saturday night, asserting my space and letting opportunistic males know that it was not okay to grind on me. Some chick who was the girlfriend of another of Erin's college friends tried to play like U2 was cool and argued with me about Bono before admitting that he looks really old and wrinkly in person and wears the sunglasses all the time only to be recognized. And as a rhetorical question: Why is this Irish annoying musician representing the US in any capacity, and hanging out with politician types? Not that I think Bush appointees deserve automatic respect, but jee-uz, what makes Bono so important? He's so damn cheesy.
Last night, my (and Reb's) cousin Christopher got married to Ashley in Pittsburgh. It was a nice outdoor wedding, despite the rain. I'm pretty sure they chose the Beatles' Here Comes the Sun as the processional march before they knew it was going to rain. A lovely occasion followed by scrumptious desserts, so no complaining here.
posted by RL @ 3:43 AM
6 comments
6 Comments:
do you really think i care to read the boring particulars of your life? If you are a poet, what is it that you are seeing? If not, than why place "poet" beside your name? Yes, this may sound mean, but it is realistic. Do I really care about Erin. You should make me care.
Roger
Actually, I'm just sister of the poet. Reb, the poet, is on vacation and I'm guest blogging. You're under no obligation to read about the boring particulars of my life. I won't be offended if you don't. Erin probably won't be either.
Tender Buttons
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Dear Rodger,
piss off. Are you such a poet that you wear poet pants all day?
Though she claims not the title of poet, I say unto you that she has earned it for the way she has roused your feelings and driven you to express those feelings in word. Surely I can picture you reclining on your chaise lounge, your clove cigarette trailing wisps of smoke around your bald head, your ascot a jaunty yellow, typing your little missives with a look of the cheshire cat upon your face. As you happen to find yourself catching your own gaze in an ornate, gilded mirror, you think to yourself that you do care. But mostly about yourself. Well, there's someone for everyone, they say.
folks, I think a writer was born. hurrah.
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