Defenders of the Face

May 29, 2008 at 1:07 am (Clairissa, Drunk and disorderly, Sweet sticky things)

Ever feel like you need someone to have your back? Underwater, with no way to surface? Stuck looking a stranger in the face, then bursting into tears like a bitch because a bullet to the brain seems easier than explaining to them “Why the boo-boo face?” It’s been that kind of week, and while I didn’t expect it, I saw the biggest display of balls in years.

There’s little doubt Clairissa has my back.

I’ve been vague and silent mostly. Family issues have me borderline apoplectic. I wish there was a way to do what I want to do and get away with it. People (those with high morals and a heart way bigger than their bank account) are getting royally fucked by other family members and there’s nothing I can do without ending up on Fox 12 News. I awoke this morning feeling like the weight of the world was on my shoulders. Hi heaviness..

I called my boss and pled mental illness. “I just can’t do the dog & pony show today.” Whitney has the biggest shoulders in the world, and he gave me a three-mile piggyback ride. He took me from deep dark blue to giggle fit. I wish hugs could be sent through phone lines, he’d still be gettin’ squeezed.

I got support from other co-workers. They’ll make overtime, and I get some space. I dragged all the CDs from under my bed, alerted Sis that headphones were order of the day, wrapping my ears around Steely Dan and Beck. Is it any fucking wonder I’ve cried like thirty times today?

“I’m a book-keeper’s son. I don’t wanna shoot no one. Well I crossed my old man back in Oregon, don’t take me alive.”

Those were the upbeat lyrics. The Dan hit their peak during the Royal Scam, IMHO. (After all, I *am* Kid Charlemagne. But I digress.) I’d already heard Pantera, and can’t find Motorhead, Hmm…

Kid Rock, though mood-fitting, didn’t cut it. Cadillac Pussy reminds me of a certain girl from Detroit. Aughh!!

I popped in the Rolling Stones, Sticky Fingers, and was brain-deep in Sister Morphine when the door opened.

“Telephone!” Little niece gets to the point. I picked up, and it was my favorite hair dresser, Clairissa.

“Dude! Whaddup?”

I gave her a brief synopsis of my fugly mood/situation.

“So… you’re off? Wanna go to a punk show? I’m buyin’…”

It was that, or listen to Electriclarryland . Again.

“What the fuck. Meet you outside?”

The jingle of a dog’s collar would be good right now…

* * *

Security laughed at my digital camera. (Forgot that bit of contraband.) After offering Blaster from Thunderdome to “squeeze what you need”‘ (“Nah, we cool,”) we went inside. Clairissa returned with a dixie cup of whiskey and a beer. I sat to the side, she went toward the stage. I got devil-horned by the drummer, and she returned to take me by the hand, leading me to the front and center of the mosh pit.

I turn 47 tomorrow. Taking an umbrella used as a cane into a mosh pit? Even when I was young and dumb, I was smarter than that. Still, everyone was cool, except one guy. He tore his shirt off and plowed into me.

I thumped his shoulder and pointed to my knee. He nodded, we belly-bumped, and all was cool.

Except for my date. Clairissa took umbrage.

Ever seen the video of New York Giants linebacker Lawrence Taylor chasing a rooster as knee rehab? I saw a similar version. Clairissa and ‘one guy’ went at least two laps before she bulldogged him like Larry Mahan. She landed buns-down, he went face first. She dribbled him like Kobe doing a between-the-knees, thunked him in an ‘ I coulda had a V8’ sorta way.

Somehow she palmed his shiny bald head, smacked him into the floor one more time, pointed at me, and (reading lips at this point) said, “You DON’T fuck with my homie.” He nodded, she let him up, and I braced for a fistfight.

We belly-bumped, hugged, and he wandered off to buy us another dixie cup of whiskey. We made a friend.

Jeez. How many of my homies are gonna come to my rescue? As to Clairissa, our first official date isn’t until Friday.

“We got your skinny girls, here at the Western world…”

Face, babygirl. Big old tear-stained clown-faced motherfuckin’ FACE!

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