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THE PENCOPAL PROJECT

2004-05-04 - 12:42 p.m.

Welcome to the Pencopal and Pastori-i Show.

Scene: Friday night�s Peaches show.

Though I usually paint Pastori-i as a drunken, high, unkempt music snob (and he is all of those things), he was on point with Peaches. Getting to the show was uneventful: it began when took turns relieving Pastori-i of his personal stash. Bummer for him. He had �Owner of a lonely heart� keyed up to torment me about my Yes fetish. The difference between classic Yes and �80s Yes was lost on him. I spoke in terms he could understand:

Pencopal: Classic Yes good. �80s Yes bad.

Pastori-i (cranks stereo): Owner of a lonely heeeeaaaaaaarrrrrrrrtttt!

Pencopa: I hate you.

We adjourned to South Street, where superfreaks are in no short supply. A dirty looking little man with big teeth and requisite indie band t-shirt came up to Pastori-i�s friend and greeted him at about 150 decibels.

Pencopal: Friend of yours, I assume.

Pastori-i: A guy I know.

Pencopal: Aw, our first douche chill.

We went to Lorenzos to order Pizza. It was like the fucking soup Nazi place from Seinfeld. A huge mean looking Italian dude, whom I would only fight if I had access to a bazooka, took orders. Or rather, looked at you in a threatening manner until you blurted out whatever came to mind first, just so he�d stop looking at you like that. I felt my ass growing larger as I ate what I�d consider to be two pieces of pizza, but at Lo-Lorenzo�s it was only one. Greasy little man finished eating, and donned the most obnoxious pair of reflecting aviator style glasses I�ve ever seen. Pastori-i and I groaned inwardly, turning away. As the guy leaves, he hi-fives me. HE FUCKING HIGH FIVED ME! I'll kill him.

Pastori-i: Douche chill number two?

Pencopal: Definitely.

We got to the show. What is it about Peaches and belt buckles? Belt buckles abound, on shirts, pants, headbands, skirts, it was all too much. I needed a drink, ASAP. As I waited for the bartender to notice me, I felt a sharp knock to the back of my head. I whipped around, and an anorexic looking chick stood behind me, looking sheepish.

Feed me girl: OhmygodI�msosorry!

Pencopal looked into her eyes to gauge whether she was truly sorry or if she was asking for a punch in the face.

Feed me girl: It�s just that, well, um, when I adjusted my purse, your head was at the same level as my elbow.

Pencopal: It�s okay.

I turned around and faced the bar again. Damn my short stature, damn it all to hell! Tall bitches can�t even lift their arms without elbowing me? We got drinks and found the chill spot just in time for the show to start. I had no idea what to expect. A girl wearing a purple halter top dress walked to the middle of the stage.

�Shake your tits, shake your dicks,� she sang. The two girls behind her shook heir tits, then their �dicks,� pink dildoes protruding from black panties. I turn to Pastori-i, who wore the largest shit-eating grin I�ve ever seen.

Pastori-i (laughing): You like that?

Pencopal (thinks to herself): This fucker knows me too well.

For the next two hours we were subjected to the most overtly sexual, deviant, filthy show I�ve ever seen. It was, indeed, the best two hours ever. It brought out Pencopal�s puritan side, because I was really shocked by some of her lyrics and some of the acts she simulated. Who knew I had a pure, virginal bone in my body? But it was like watching porn in a room full of people.

The great Pastori-i, however, took it all in stride. After the show he looked at me, all-knowing, righteous beams emanating from his eyes.

Pastori-i: What�d you think?

Pencopal (said like robot): Need Peaches CD immediately. Must have blood pellets to crush in my mouth while screaming �Fatherfucker� at the top of my lungs.

Fucking Pastori-i. Always right, mostly. If only I could�ve scored those Velvet Revolver tickets and waved them in his face, making him say, �Pencopal is a goddess, Pencopal is a music genius,� until I had my fill.

Damn.

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