I join in this week’s salute to vidiotic musical ancient history, what with Cafe Muscato’s Petula Clark anniversary and the usual shenanigans of The Redundant Variety Hour stooping to Olivia Newton Whatever, by presenting T. Rex tearing it up with Children of the Revolution.
You can squint all you want, but eventually you have to concede lead singer Marc Bolan, partially buried under a wig he seems to have boosted from Cher, is wearing a two piece yellow miniskirt, decorated with random string.
More disturbing than his fashion choices is the spectacle of Straight White People Trying to Dance. Girl, the fucking downbeat is practically delivered by cannon shot, how can you possibly miss it? And let us not overlook the guy in the fuscia t-shirt standing perfectly still, waving his hands aimlessly as if he were trying to contact the spirit world through an invisible ouija board.
Nevertheless, a great tune, rocketing up the charts.
This is my life in the shell of a nut: I just spent much too long crawling around on the floor of my tastefully decorated bathroom trying to find an ativan I dropped on the white marble tiles, which, while I think beautiful, are the perfect camouflage for a small white pill, all the while Saki the cat, agitated by a really bad youtube video of the 2009 Night of a Thousand Stevies drag show, darts around trying to figure out what the game is.
Really, the only thing missing was porn.
So Titty and I were having a few down at this terribly pretentious “Bourbon Bar” south of Market. Titty likes to stiff these places by running up a tab and then reminding them how she’s Mother Theresa and then she starts crying about the poor starving orphans in India and the chumps pretty much always fall for it. I don’t usually like to go along with these shenanigans because she’s Mother Theresa, for chris sakes. The possibility of going to hell for this seems high. But this bar is so pissy about their liquor, gassing on and on about “Fine bourbon is like the best cognac: blahblahblah.” All I know is bourbon is what my old man would fall back on when he couldn’t find any more cheap scotch. So not impressed.
Anyway, we were chatting about the inequalities wealth distribution creates in the so-called “Third World” when Titty hauled out some of her crappy drugs. I swear, hanging with that woman is like being cast in the road show of Ab Fab. She is constantly reaching into her ratty old fake Chanel bag (of course it’s fake. “Chanel” on it is spelled with two “nn’s” like Channel No. 5 is your local NBC affiliate.) and pulling out these very dodgy pharmas.
“You want some?” she cackled “It’s viagra I scored off some schmuck in Mumbai.”
“Titty, I am pretty sure viagra will do nothing for whatever withered up Lady bits you might still have.”
“Bitch. I know that. Whatever these are they ain’t dick pills. They make my blood pressure go up so high my head feels like it’s going to splode, but then I get plenty loaded.”
“Darling, what you have there is just pig tranquilizer. For heaven sakes.”
Our friendly chat might have gotten out of hand at that point, but just then, Titty spotted some poor victim who looked a lot like Adam in the Sassy Gay Friend/Eve video.
Have you seen the Sassy Gay Friend videos on YouTube? Terribly amusing. Heroines from Shakespeare (and now the Bible) have their fates averted by the timely intervention of the eponymous Sassy Gay Friend. Go Here for the latest http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gQhkzYVlLl8
Anyway, Sassy fed this guy her viagra/pig trank and the last I saw they were simultaneously wearing her granny drawers announcing they were Siamese twins co-joined at the love joint. I left.