Whew, what a weekend. I. Am. Exhausted.
On Friday night the Golden Girdles—a recently-birthed and rather attractive collaborative—hosted their first event at 506. The show was a competition wherein nine local acts wrote and performed a song based on their interpretation of another genre. A metal band, for instance, might write a Christian rock song and perform it in front of a hand-woven tapestry of Rick Warren’s face, although this didn’t happen for some reason. The show included a panel of judges lacking only a semi-conscious Paula Abdul telling everyone how pretty they looked and questioning whether she is human or pumpkin.
My friends Whit and Jill asked me if I’d like to help with their project. As an attention-seeking wanna-be star-fucker, the thought of being on stage in the company of two incredible musicians almost made me wet myself. Do I want to perform in a packed club wearing a short dress and David Bowie cheeks? YES. Do I want to birth iPods out of an anatomically- correct silver vagina? YES. Do I want to suck the coattails of what is sure to be a winning act? YES.
The whole act was so outside-the-box (and by that, I mean “inside”) that it’s stupid hard to describe. Basically, Whit and Jill (aka Ram Rom) wrote a New Wave song set in the late ’70s/early 2080s about machines (WE NEED MORE MACHINES! WE NEED MORE MACHINES!) and wore computers on their heads. My role was mid-wife to the afore mentioned anatomically-correct silver vagina and it’s googly-eyed iPod babies. Amazing.
And we won. Or, I should say, they won and I’m reaping the benefits of their genuii. When Whit and Jill were accepting the award on stage I was holding the silver vagina. It was still wet from the spray paint and all I could think to say was, “This is one sticky vagina.” Into the mic. Also, we won a $100 bar tab at our neighborhood drinking trough. YES.
Later that night, two besties slept on a deflated air mattress in the freezing spare room where I keep my dirty laundry, the keepsakes of failed relationships that I don’t want to look at but can’t burn because of drought regulations, and the creepy baby calendar I got for Christmas. I, however, was nicely heated the company of a new friend across the hall. The two unfortunate palsies in the next room may have been miserable for most of the night but they had the pleasant occasion to sleep with Cozy, my beloved teddy bear. They thanked me for this the next day, like, hey, even though you made us sleep on a deflated air mattress in your freezing spare room where you keep shit you don’t want to look it, it was pretty nice that you let us sleep with Cozy. Thanks, boo.
When recounting this to mutual friends the next day, another friend (we’ll call this one “Clare”) informed our sleep-deprived peeps that she knew perfectly well why I wanted them to sleep with Cozy and that it was not out of generosity. No, “Clare” told them, I wanted them to take the bear because I always banish Cozy from the room when entertaining guests. The thought of my beloved teddy witnessing the depraved acts of a species that can construct miniature polar bears out of mere stitching and love but engage in some bizarre shirtless wrestling is too much. Best to spare the bear.
And this was when I realized that I am way too TMI with my pals.
Great weekend, people. Keep up the good work.