Mondays, by their rock ‘n’ roll nature usually are followed by a quiet Tuesday and this was my intention. I smelled funny, didn’t shave, was bloodshot in the eyes and flushed in the skin. As is almost never the case, however; it was I who was dragged out of the house… to go to ‘80s prom night at a bar in Echo Park. Lars wanted to go because some bartender seemed to show interest in him the last time we saw her.
With my aesthetic powers, I determined that there were exactly two cute girls, no cute guys, and Greg Dulli, whose Afghan Whigs (or is it Wigs? Whigs is better) aggressively suck ass.
After satisfying myself with a campari, a beer and almost dancing to Echo & the Bunnymen, I was ready to go. Besides, one of my two potential love interests seemed to be parking her left buttock in the roving hand of some jerk.
Then, no doubt becaus he sacraficed children to Moloch in a past life, Lars’ favorite bartendress notified me that I was to be prom king. I’m a shy boy, I’m a spineless boy, I’m a nervous boy (I’m a homosapien too!). This necessitated a little Dutchman’s courage.
Shortly thereafter, I was crowned. My queen was Michelle, the other cute girl, in a nice, ol’ school dress. We had to dance to that “I Ain’t Missin’ You” song (I’ll save ranting about the annoying co-option of the ’80s by those who choose to ignore the GOOD ’80s e.g. Stone Roses, Nick Cave, Felt, &c). She wasn’t much of a dancer, but nice, a good sport, and a proper prom queen. And she’d never been to prom because she dropped out of high school.
The more I drank, the drunker I was with power (as well as alcohol). I used my power to smite those ’80s one-hit-wonders off the wheels of steel to be replaced by EPMD, Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five and, somewhat dubiously, Ice T (although it sampled Curtis Mayfield, to its credit).
So thanks for dragging my ass out of the house when I desperately wanted to curl up with the holy Qu’ran, light some candles, and go to sleep early. Oh, and read ’em and weep!