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I'll be damned if I can remember Friday night. James and Jen came down. I drank a forty. We listened to the Duckjob.
Sonya and I were taters, for the most part, on Saturday. I think I made a quick run to the store. Saturday evening, though, we washed ourselves and headed out. We had three goals:
The last two times (!) we've seen VG we've driven through the Burger King across the street and ended up horking down whole cheeseburgers in the seconds before we had to rush inside. This time we were there plenty early.
"I'm sorry I'm not taking you some place nice," I told Sonya as we walked inside the Burger King.
"That's okay," she said, "you can take me to the Sizzler some other time."
Old inside joke, that.
Sonya had on her silver Hard Candy lipstick and she looked a bit nervous as she ate her chicken sandwich.
"These people are from Bartlett,", she explained, eyes darting around. "They probably think I'm the leader of a cult or something."
Velvet Goldmine gets under your skin, for some reason. This was my third time to see it, and I enjoyed it more this time than ever. You should have seen the theater it was in; maybe twenty seats and a tiny little screen. Extra bonus: Sonya and I were the only ones in there.
I don't know about you, but this was the first time I'd ever gotten a movie theater all to myself. We sang along with the soundtrack. We propped our feet up at all sorts of obnoxious angles. We chatted out loud, just like we were at home watching a video. When I decided to take my coat off I stood up and took it off, carefully placing it over the chair beside me. Then I stretched and took my time situating myself.
"You know," I observed to Sonya, "forteen bucks is worth it to get a big screen and no one else bothering you."
"Yup," she agreed, watching Ewan McGregor and Jonathan Rhys-Myers exchange a big wet one.
"If only they'd bring us drinks," I continued, "or let us smoke."
"Hush, boy," she said, slapping at me distractedly, "I'm trying to watch the intermale physicality."
After that we bounded back into the truck and motorvated to Midtown and the High Tone Lounge, across Poplar from Overton Park. The High Tone was formerly the Edge, a coffee joint that I went to once. It was odd, even as far as coffee joints go. There was a folksinger who couldn't sing and tons of young (15-18) girls. Also, there were lots of old (50-70) men. I wasn't sure if it was a front for some bizarre caffeinated bordello or what.
The place has changed a bit, now. They've painted the place a darker color, added a stage and a bar and showcase a huge, sky blue leather '50s era couch. I believe the whole set-up is supposed to be conducive to the swing-dancing, cocktail-swigging fad that still hasn't found a steady foothold in Memphis. I don't mind this too much, personally. Tennessee's byzantine liquor laws don't allow the serving of hard liquor without a full kitchen; hence, if you want to open a bar and not a restaurant all you can serve is beer. There are bars in this town (The Flying Saucer is one example; the High Point is another) that have made serving beers an art form of epic proportions. I say all that to say this: you can't just open a cocktail joint in this town. You have to be willing to cook, too. Most folks aren't.
And that's okay with me. Memphis is a neighborhood bar kind of town. Everyone loves the scruffy little joints where the bartender knows your name and the overhead lights haven't been turned on in years.
Swing dancing? I think it's on its forteenth minute, nationwide. Will Memphis care that it missed a fad that's already gone? I doubt it.
Anyway, the High Tone was still recognizable as its old, coffee-slinging self, but the new coat of crap on the walls was nice, too. Dave Zollo was also pretty cool. He played piano with Todd Snider for a while; I saw him play with him several times in '96. The most memorable: in Luckenbach, Texas. Someone threw a joint on stage. Dave looked around, grinned, and shoved the joint in his shirt pocket.
Anyway, we stayed for his first set and enjoyed the piano immensely. He writes some pretty sad songs, but he does 'em real good.
Hmmm, Sunday...I went to Appleby's to get some takeout. There was horribly violent weather nearby, but not in Memphis. The Falcons are going to the Super Bowl, which makes me sick. They might as well just empty the prisons onto the football field as send Atlanta to the big game.
Go Denver!
I was cute, though. I'm not sure why, but I continue to dress like a kid. I had on my old black Gap hat, a battered tie-dye, my hugely baggy khakis and some low-top All Stars. I felt very self-confident in this outfit. It made me want to smoke pot and drink beer in a parking lot.
I didn't work Monday, which is a good thing. Sonya and I did go see Shakespeare In Love, which was just too wonderful. It was such a date movie. I recommend it. Gwyneth Paltrow is luminous. I want to sit on the couch with her, watch videos and eat popcorn. Does anyone else get that impression? That Gwyneth would just be a hoot to hang out with? You could ask her what it's like wearing all those period costumes and how Brad Pitt is in the sack.
We went to Goldsmith's after the movie, too, and got James a birthday present. I think he'll like it. If you want to know what we got him, and you're not James, then write me and I'll tell you.
Oh, this is entertaining. Here's a lesson on The Importance of Clear Communication.
Nothing entertains Sonya more than keeping me awake when I'm napping on the couch. I'll be nearly asleep and she'll shout:
"Ohheyharoldlookatthis!"
Or I'll be zoning in and out on the floor and she'll yell:
"Ohbabyiforgottotellyousomething!"
Anyway, she gets a lot of pleasure out of this. So, Monday night I'm reading on the couch and Sonya's web surfing. I start to hear Duran Duran snippets coming out of our computer.
"What are you looking at?" I ask.
"Their page," she tells me.
So shortly thereafter I put down my book and start to doze. At some point Sonya starts to giggle, happy as a little schoolgirl.
"They've started an American tour!" she yells at me, "they're gonna be in St. Louis! Will you take me will you take me will you take me???"
"Mmmrrrrfff," I grunt. Me, Sonya and Jen went to Tampa over Thanksgiving '97 to see Duran. It was a fun trip (I should write about it sometimes) but it pretty much cured me of any urge to see them live again. Their fans are really, really excited about seeing Le Bon et al and the casual observer can feel very out of his depth. I figured this would be more of a Jen and Sonya type thing. But what the hell? Sonya wanted me to take her, so I'd take her. "Sure, whatever," I mumbled and went back to sleep.
The next day on the phone Sonya asked, "are you sure you don't mind taking me to St. Louis to see Placebo?"
Huh? "Huh?" I said, "I thought it was Duran Duran."
"No," she told me, "I told you Placebo was starting a tour..."
"No," I chided her, "you told me they were going on tour. You never said who, and the last thing I heard was Duran Duran music..."
So Sonya was much more pleased at my reaction and I was far more pleased to be seeing Placebo. I'll get to wear my hip young-people shirt and wear eyeliner. I've never actually been to St. Louis, anyway.
And no, you cannot say Sonya or I are on any sort of bandwagon. We both thought that Placebo's version of Twentieth Century Boy totally rocked, and Sonya got both of their CDs on the recommendation of Sean, our stylist. Only after the fact did James point out to us that this was the band that did Pure Morning. Small world, huh?
I went home at lunch today. By and by I had to leave. I stood up to go.
"Oh, don't go," Sonya said.
"I have to go," I explained.
"Well," she demanded, "give me the rest of your coke, then."
"What is this?" I asked, "some sort of departure tax?"
[Addendum: While typing the above passage when I reached the word "coke" I initially typed "cock." That would have made the whole little story very different, wouldn't it?]
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