"Talk dirty to me," the pretty boy cooed. We had retired to his railroad apartment above Ronnys, the loneliest dive bar in Chicago to see unknown and semi-unknown rock bands flail about in punkish ecstasy.
I want to gently finger your nipples as I run my fingers down the cleft of your buttocks, I thought, and tried to say. But, when I spoke, this is what came out: "Cough, ack, murmur murmur, eh eh, eh, eh, whisper whisper."
"Oooh, yeah, talk dirty to me!" my young beau shouted. "Keep talking, you dirty tramp!"
I want to grasp your bony hips and pull your urging body into mine, I thought and tried to stay. But, when I spoke, this is what came out: "Eh heh, heh heh, murmur murmur. Murmur murmur, ack ack - cough, cough cough."
"Oh yeah, yeah...I mean," the stud pulled away and stared into my eyes. "Wait - do you have laryngitis?"
"Lar-yn-git-is," I croaked. After decades on the road, my legendary voice - the voice that had sold millions of records and brought thousands of young men to their knees - had failed me.
"Oh, my sweet wittle cuddly dawling has waryngitis!" this macho man exclaimed. "Well, we don't have to make out or swap reacharounds - "
No! my mind screamed "Blarr!" my mouth said.
" - we can just stay up all night and listen to free jazz records," the young buck explained. "Free jazz is the lingua franca of Chicago."
Anything but free jazz! I tried to scream. But, when I spoke, this is what came out: "Eh frazzle frazzle ack, cough, Anthony Braxton, cough cough, Matt Shipley, cough cough."
"Are you familiar with the Chicago Art Ensemble?" my darling said. "We can listen to a 20-CD opera a spinoff of this popular group released in 1993 -"
Anything but the Chicago Art Ensemble! I strained to say. But what came out was: "Erk, blerk, gurgle gurgle gurgle, Albert Ayler, ack ack ack, Susie Ibarra."
"I can't seem to find that 20-CD set," my lover said, staring at a stack of Tzadik CDs. "I guess we'll just have to listen to some long-form instrumental post-rock. As you know, vaguely funky instrumentals are Chicago's other raison d'etre. Are you familiar with a record label called Thrill Jockey?"
PLEASE GOD! I tried to scream. But, when I spoke, this is what came out: "Gurgle! Gurgle! Blah, blah, eh eh eh, Isotope 217, gurgle, Tortoise!"
"Oh, here's the new Sea and Cake full length!" the urban cowboy exclaimed. "I'll put on some tea. No makey lovey for you tonight! Only rest and sleep!"
And so it had come to pass: as surely as Hogan's Heroes were the captives of Colonel Klink, I became the hostage of an enemy aesthetic.
Previously in Tangents:
- 12/28: Terrible Boyfriend/ Girlfriend Generator.
- 11/2: PHOTOS: TAXLO Halloween (feat. Chain Gang of 1974)
- 10/10: #OccupyWallStreet
- 8/10: PHOTOS: Lawn Mover Racing, Eastern Seaboard Regionals @ Bowles Farm
- 7/26: Special List: Things the BYGays Want Now That We Can Marry In DC (and NY!)
- 7/20: PHOTOS: Artscape
- 7/19: Miho Hatori's Guide to New York City
- 4/11: Cirque Du Soleil: Totem (A Review)
- 12/29: War, Reenacted
- 12/29: What in Hell is Slaughterama?!?
God loves a cheerful giver.
seriously, make it stop!
i'd let you taylor my cecil anytime edie
i happen think this is great.
why is everyone hating on these posts? they are great.
please expound upon its greatness. i'd like to hear the HOW or WHYs.
his posts are: creative, atmospheric, sensual, imaginative - what's not to like?
rachel = Fail. No they aren't. One of them was funny, I admit. This one was all but unreadable.
the greatness is simply obvious. Just look at the visage.
Now, seriously, shit fulfills itself in many ways. This one is a no fun shit. No fun to read, to look at, or even make fun of. It strikes as a bad imitation of a bad imitation of an original that sucked in the first place. What’s worse, this shit doesn't know it. It’s pretentious, creepy and very persistent, very. Damn, it’s persistent! Doesn’t work as a farce, even a creepy one, because this shit is as funny as phone bill. Phony? Yes. Funny? No. The chief fault here is the lack of talent.