ihavebeenfloated

This is where I write about my weekend.

At some point.

Why I haven’t yet, I’ll know not ever.

Well, fuck it, I might as well. I’m not going to write what I set out to write, most likely, so I might as well describe the events of my… eventful… weekend. Fuck, that was a lame choice of words.

After catching Hedwig and the Angry Inch last weekend, I had a little bit of a thirst to see it again. You know this. I tried to arrange a large group of people to see it. Posted advertisement for it on MySpace, (Yeah, that was a fucking waste of time), and OKCupid. Told all of my friends… all two of them, that is. They both agreed to go, which was nice. I had two people set to go, with four reservations and two tickets already purchased.

Friday night, sometime around midnight, I sign on OKCupid and I have a woo from a girl named Chandler. I think, “Great, another woo from another gigantic whale of a woman,” because, you know, I’m a shallow bastard and my entire career on OKCupid so far has consisted of women who are about eight years older than me, two hundred pounds heavier, and a foot shorter than I wooing me.

However, Chandler is, shockingly, quite attractively depicted in her photos. I send a message her way, every ounce of my shyness and fear contained within every single awkwardly thought of word. I end up quoting Ray Bradbury within the first four lines of dialog and I feel like the biggest geek the world has ever known. I don’t even fucking like Ray Bradbury. This is where I quote Hedwig and say, “I laugh, because I’ll cry if I don’t.”

Apparently I’m not too terrible because I,... No, maybe it was her. Well, regardless, one of us suggested a phone call, and she gave me her number. I mentioned Hedwig, and she said that was how she found my profile, and that she so desperately wanted to go, but could not because she was going and seeing the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Later on, she asks what time Hedwig starts, and we learn that she could easily make Hedwig as well as Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Bing, three other people for Hedwig. Turns out that OKCupid isn’t a social wasteland like MySpace is. Thank you OKCupid, you have restored my faith in the internet. For all these years, I thought it was only for talking to people you’d never want to meet.

She invites me along for Rocky Horror Picture show, and I agree. Two bits of musical theatre with transvestites in one night. Can you have too much cross dressing in one night? No… No, I don’t think so.

The conversation continues for a little over three hours, until I am so tired that I become ridiculously incoherent.

When morning rolls around, which means something like, say, three in the afternoon, I get ready and head out the door. It’s about a forty minute drive to pick up Chandler in Sherman Oaks. It was a nice drive, traffic through Los Angeles was only moderately aggravating. I pull up into some random drive way when I get to her street and give her a call.

She comes out and is… well… God, how do you write about something when you know they’ll end up reading it? How? Fuck it.

Chandler is an elastic firecracker. Witty, clever, sarcastic, arrogant in a way, and everything else that I am. The big difference, however, is that she is confident and extroverted where I am unsure of myself and extremely introverted. It’s rather surprising how ridiculously well we offset each other. Greg, within a minute of being in the car with the two of us, was even surprised at how we sparred verbally. He asked, “I’ve got to know, what was your match percentage?”

“I don’t know, something like 68.”

“Well, I see a lot of you in her.”

Yeah.

Not to mention that the pictures on her profile on OKCupid don’t do her justice whatsoever, but I wont get into that.

I drive us back to Whittier and we hang out and drink coffee at a Starbucks. The conversation is mostly dominated by trying to find new ways to describe exactly how ridiculously awful the music is. I spend the time hounding my cell phone and my watch, wondering where the fuck Greg and Lessette are. I manage to get Lessette on the phone about fifteen minutes before I’m supposed to be picking her up.

She tells me, “I’ve got some company over, I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

I FUCKING TOLD YOU A GODDAMN WEEK IN ADVANCE AND CONFIRMED IT MULTIPLE TIMES WITH YOU, YOU GODDAMN BITCH!

...

I’m better now, I swear.

(Note: Lessette tried to kill herself early in the morning on Sunday.)

(Subnote: I think that if she went to Hedwig with us like she was supposed to, she wouldn’t have needed to try to kill herself.)

(Subsubnote: Eh.)

(Subsubsubnote: Obviously, she failed at the whole suicide thing. She didn’t even do the whole “I’m on the verge of death and someone conveniently breaks into the bathroom and saves me” thing. She did the whole “I kind of cut open my wrists and now I’m waving them around wondering if anyone will notice” thing.)

(Hey Look, Another Note: Fucking people and their cries for help. At least when I tried to kick the bucket I never fucking told anyone. Yes, no melodramatic cries from me back then. Those come now, without the suicide attempts.)

So, anyway…

Bing, back down to two people for Hedwig.

It hits the time I’m supposed to be picking Greg up. He hasn’t called. I think, wrongly, that he’s still in San Diego, even after he told me the day before that he wouldn’t be going. I say, “Fuck it,” halfheartedly and we leave Starbucks and I drive by his house. I knock on his door the same time that my cell phone rings with his call, and there is Greg.

Bing, two people confirmed and existing. I am happy.

Introductions are quick and we all get along. This is a good thing.

Hedwig is awesome, as per usual. Greg liked it, like I had hoped he would. Chandler loved it, but I knew she would. The guy who plays Hedwig came out after and talked to us. I had promised him last time I would bring more people, and although my vision of five people didn’t quite work out, two would have to do.

He asked me, “Where’s the missus?”

He’s referring to Paula. I grimace, “Yeah… well… not the missus. In fact, not even really happy with me right now. After Hedwig, it was all down hill. You destroyed my relationship, damnit!”

I leave out the fact that it was a failed relationship with a woman who concurrently was living with her boyfriend. You know, unimportant details.

“Yeah, I am just too damn hot.”

We thanked him for the awesome show, and we were off to drop Greg off at home.

Chandler and I made our way to Santa Monica, and I worried about the virgin sacrifice at Rocky Horror.

It’s no use describing my experience at the Rocky Horror Picture Show. A few things are of note, though.

A few different people absolutely loved my “Miss Scarlet” shirt and invited me to the shadow cast of Clue they’ll be having in September. I am most certainly going.

A few different people, including Chandler, suggested that I would make a good Riff Raff. I am considering it. (Chandler has a thing for Riff Raffs. Hmm.)

I went up on stage during the virgin sacrifice and made a proper idiot of myself, but I managed to eke out a decent amount of applause. I’d tell you what I had to do, but then I’d have to kill you.

Some of the callouts during the show were fucking comedy gold.

I foresee myself turning this into a sickly deprived weekly ritual, even if I don’t somehow become a cast member in some way.

Chandler and I are taking Greg next Saturday, and as he will be virginal I foresee good times. I hope to find something decent to dress up in, as something about it all just screams, “Brad, for the love of God, give in to that… thing… that lurks inside of you… that desperately wants to go nuts in garments,” or something.

I have no idea what the fuck I just said.

I dropped Chandler off after the show and made my way home. My Saturday night was over at four in the morning Sunday.

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Sunday. Today. No, yesterday.

Chandler is going nuts at her place. After about two hours of gut wrenching indecision I decide that, hey, Chandler would love Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

So, of course, I pick her up and we go.

She loves it.

I take her home.

That seems so much more uneventful when written out in words.

And now here I am, describing events that are meaningless to anyone but myself, or those involved, but that’s what I do, and that’s what I did. There you have it.

So it goes.

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All you bitches trying to bring me down can fuck off. Not that any of you read this, but if I concentrate hard enough right now, at this exact moment, I’m sure I can inject myself kicking your ass into your dreams.