vittore

There are nights where there is nothing to do but play the role that's set out for you.

When it comes to the night scene, the role is "doll".
Too Much Love, again, for the first time in a long time.
Sit pretty, smile, act like the discotheque is yours to do with what you will.
You are the princess of the scene, after all.

When someone buys you a shot for their birthday, you accept.
and a second shot, and a third, to the point where you're no help at all and can't even hold a camera.
Pretty and useless and drunk.

* * * *
I don't mean to complain;

It was a good night, in comparison to others.
The Nightstalker

(Grant Mayland) was there, wearing his sunglasses at night, and achieving a a level of ridiculousness/coolness yet unmatched by any other man I've met. I've known Grant for a few years now, from when the parties used to be set in abandoned glass factories in the warehouse district, before the kids with candy necklaces and glo-sticks infested the Seventh Street Entry. If there's ever a dedicated nerd D.J. who's in love with his machines and the sounds they produce, it's him.


And no, he's not past shameless self-promotion.

Anthem Heart

(Ken Hannigan) was there as well, falling over himself in his graceful, twenty-nine-year long tumble off of the wagon known as "Sobriety". I adore this man, and have forgiven him a thousand indiscretions in return for good companionship, kick-ass t-shirts, and a limitless supply of drinks I can steal out of his unwitting hand. (Yeah, I'm one of those; it's hereditary, Ma does the same thing to my Da.) Tonight he couldn't even focus on my face, stumbling into everyone within a ten foot radius with an intention of riding home in the pouring rain at 2:30 a.m.. Needless to say, I convinced Denis to give him a ride home with us, and he convinced Denis to take us to an afterparty, which ended up being a circle of hell for which I had not come prepared.

I don't get on with most people, especially when they're trying to convince me that "Goldfrapp is the most monumental band of this day and age" at ludicrous hours of the morning while we're listening to minimal Drum'n'Bass. In Minneapolis, there's an afterparty for each afterparty, until the kids are all burnt out and pass out standing up in humid, smokey dance halls set up in the bottoms of hotel basements. It's so exhausted that it haunts itself.

I loathe the hipsters and the day-trippers, the boys with too bright eyes chatting up the girls with their smiles set on a dimmer.

* * * *

There's a part of me that's furious at every minor slight; there's a black oil-slick rage that slides down my throat and makes me choke. It pools at the bottom of my lungs and makes it difficult to breathe, it makes my fists clench and my eyes narrow and my jaw set.

I can look over the top of my drink and hate everything and everyone, and then just as quickly, it passes, and I lean up against the wall and wait for the beat to drop, or the dawn to break.