Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Since I Have No Life...

...I live vicariously through the lives of others, in this case my friend Sarah.

So I was watching a rerun of That '70s Show this evening (because I have an incredible, horrible, completely inappropriate and undeniably creepy schoolboy-type crush on Laura Prepon) when I got a text message:

world's biggest douche bag* is at (local 19th Century celebrity writer-themed pub** featuring live music having nothing to do with aforementioned 19th Century celebrity writer). he keeps saying he runs a restaurant. he's a manager at (somewhat pretentious restaurant chain specializing in Italian food for people who don't really like Italian food***) in colonial heights****. ps he brought his tarot cards

To which I replied:

Boys in bars with Tarot cards make the baby Jeebus cry.

I speak from experience.

Years ago I lived in New Orleans and spent my...ahem...off-hours hanging out in a bar called The Dungeon***** (on Toulouse St. next to Molly's Irish Pub and about the only place in the French Quarter were one could hear Lou Reed's Rock 'N' Roll Animal and at a volume sufficient to sterilize toads at 2000 yards), slinging back whiskey sours or a noxious mix of Wild Turkey and grapefruit juice (I was going through a Hunter Thompson phase). Problem was, my thirst for alcohol and my ability to pay for it didn't exactly coincide, so I came up with a little plan involving a pack of Tarot cards and and incredible line of bulshytt--fiddle around with the deck until someone expressed curiosity about these weird-ass cards (Tarot was not so well-known in those days) then offer 'em a "reading" in exchange for a drink or two.

This particular scam worked surprisingly well and I often managed to get decently plastered for under five dollars. The downside was I developed a serious drinking problem and a horrifically cynical view of humankind.

So, Sarah, if you wanted further proof of your ex's assholery--as if you needed it--the Tarot cards are the icing on the cake and the turd in the punchbowl.

*Ex-boyfriend who, obviously, continues to elicit intense feelings of anger and resentment. Witness our recent MySpace exchange:

From: sarah hates you
Date: Sep 14, 2008 8:53 PM

i was going to send a message about being bored, but then i saw your profile. what are more than one of my ex boyfriends doing on your page? greg i can understand, but do you have to have a picture of the ultimatly more evil one on there. yeah, that's his wailing bed wetting face in the picture of roslyn. seriously? you're friends with them. i highly disapprove.
From: G. W.
Date: Sep 14, 2008 11:36 PM

Seriously? Purely coincidence; I had no idea. When local (i.e., Richmond-based) groups ask for an add I just do it whether I know who they are or not (some people appreciate the additional numbers). I have NO problem deleting, but you're going to owe me a night of strip Risk or a one-shot X-rated D&D game.
From: sarah hates you
Date: Sep 14, 2008 11:53 PM

if you want to stretch it, both in the picture are ex's. the peruvian one only lasted a couple weeks. you can make up for it by saving your cat litter. anne and i will be needing it later. we're going to dump it on his front lawn.
From: G. W.
Date: Sep 15, 2008 1:38 PM

So, you're saying I'm going to be an accessory to a drive-by kitty littering? Oh, yeah, baby; LET THE POOPIE CHAOS BEGIN!

As a matter of fact, I have a trash bag-full ripening in the kitchen even as we speak...er...text!

**Which really should be a Goth bar except that the Goth population in Richmond isn't large enough to support a full-time Goth bar.

***Aka "McDonalli's"

****Often referred to by long-term residents as "Colonial Whites."

*****Off-hours, indeed. Super-Secret Support Group members who've heard my story will recognize this as "(the) bar which opened at midnight and closed at 8 a. m. Ya know how I know it closed at 8? That's when they asked me to leave." Now named "Ye Olde Original Dungeon" it has, as far as I can tell from its website, been tarted up and sanitized considerably, but back in '78/'79 it was dark and dank and seamy, full of leather-clad bikers, darkside hippies, budding alcoholics, and a surprising number of Wicca-oriented proto-Goth girls in black who'd read too much Ann Rice and were seeking their vampire lovers (or had just seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show for the zillionth time and figured here was where they were most likely to encounter Dr. Frank N. Furter, esq.). In fact, the Dungeon was the Urschleim from which Goth bars arose.


JSaM said...

I think, the problem is, that the delicate sex has no concept of the depth to which the not-so-delicate sex will stoop in their various travails. Don't blame us girls. There is this call, yearning, drive (what ever) that makes us stoopid. I think I'm being cohesive and then BAAHM! It is an urge that is AT LEAST as monumental as wanting to have an offspring and wanting to settle down. Sorry!

Capcom said...

Why that's the nicest apology to woman-kind that I've ever heard! :-x

Very funny post!

G. W. Ferguson said...

You're most welcome!

And therein lies the problem--we will go to ANY lengths and put up with just about ANYTHING and ANYONE if there is the merest, the SLIGHTEST chance we might actually get laid. Something about the Biological Imperative that causes all the blood to evacuate out from our collective cerebral cortices and rush to...other places...that renders us retarded.