rock my flops off
in my world, mondays are like everyone else's saturdays; it's the first day of my version of the weekend. sure, i had every intention of running some errands, of getting some writing done, of resuming my dedication to the "work your butt off" fitness routine. instead, i found myself idling in bed, channel surfing and enjoying some fat-free, sugar-free white chocolate pudding, then settling in to a lavender and chamomile bubble bath with a copy of mrs. dalloway
in hand. hey, it's my saturday and i'll do what i want to!
to cap off my thoroughly useless day, housemate l.q.t. and i walked down to a local bar to check out a singer/guitarist friend of mine that i actually went to high school with back in the dark recesses of the 1990's, and from whom i've been getting emailed invites to see her perform for years and haven't shown up--until last night. i mean, the joint is less than a mile from my house--how could i not go?
once there we sat atop your typical vinyl nightmare barstools, listened to a beer-soaked regular hoot and holler about her pool game and love life, took advantage of the $2 budweiser drink special, and waited for the show to begin. my friend took to the stage, and the music was terrific, the songs very moving, her voice lovely. she was performing with the help of a lanky woman who first played a bass, then switched to a conga drum with remarkable fluidity for the last couple of numbers. my singer friend confessed after the show (after recovering from the initial shock that i was actually there) that this was the first time ever the woman had played drums for her, making us doubly impressed with her talents. my friend had to make her meet-and-greet rounds, though, so she introduced us to her friend and instructed him to 'entertain us.' he was a tall drink of water from houston, texas by way of chicago, who regaled us with stories of his employment at a gay cowboy bar, who used hilariously charming sayings like "crazier than a couple of shithouse rats," and who proved that there are gentlemen out there by buying us gals a round of drinks. by this time, though, the stage was filled with some angst-ridden young men who belted out "i wanna fuck your mom" as their warm-up ditty. the boys seemed a little uncomfortable--i suggested to my new cowboy friend that perhaps it was because they weren't used to being out of their garage. "i hope they're good," i said. "i hope they rock my socks off. oh, wait, i'm not wearing socks. i hope they rock my flip-flops off." the cowboy laughed heartily, just as he had at all my jokes that night--the jokes of course being my manner of flirtation. "that's a good one," he laughed, "rock your flops off!" but the cowboy-meets-city-gal fantasy came to an end, as all good things must, when he departed for the evening without my number, his "nice meetin' y'all" still hanging in the air like so much humidity on a sweltering southern summer night. and the band didn't rock a single thing off; it was just another loud gaggle of boys screaming lyrics of which i couldn't understand a word.
of course, all hope is not lost--the gay cowboy bar that boasts my new favorite (and not gay) cowboy as a bartender, happens to be another local within-walking distance establishment. call me crazier than a shithouse rat, but i fully intend to rock my flops off over there in the coming weeks, y'all.