| dewy decimal |
2003-04-26 - 2:28 p.m.
Working the door is an experience, which I can only describe as an act of power and benevolence. It must necessarily be an act of assertive gratitude. Otherwise you'll be just another mark-ass-bitch throwing �A�. Another social maladroit redeeming his lost authority. Not knowing it is nowhere near.
As I sat at the door looking out onto Pauahi, the derelicts gathered refuge from the waste of the day, finding another day for themselves. Drunk men in football jerseys and wool skullies choke their 40's wrapped in brown paper bags. Doug in his blonde wig, neon, polka dot gloves, shrouded in sequined embroidery, and hugged at the hips by coochie cutters walks in and out, chatting it up with the punk kid with pink hair. This place has been baptized with the desperation of the day. This place is Holy. Authentic.
Demure kids transform themselves on stage; Superman's phone booth. Cyan, Magenta, Yellow, and Green cellophane lights withdraw from themselves as brighter displays pick their audible fruits off the practice-trees. Marlboros vanish in the company of my fingers. Beers drain themselves into me, drain themselves out of me at the rancid mensroom. A futile urinal mint dies in its acidic grave. I am resolute on being the first one to insight the leisure-mania. Another Joy Division cover ensues. Astonishing distances have been traveled in my seat facing the doorway lit by the fluorescent sign. Here at this collective-ordinary. Invisible by day, invisible by night.