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2004-09-10 - 11:08 a.m.


Pastori-i is a punk. After all that noise, all that nonsense about the PBR-fueled rampage he planned to go on at tonight’s Franz Ferdinand show, he’s not coming. Pussy. “It’s too corny,” he says, nose turned up in the air like the fairy/music critic he is. “I’ve got too many other shows to worry about,” he says, as he panhandles on the corner of Eighth and Walnut to support his addiction. His drug of choice is attending concerts in hot sweaty venues listening to bands like this, crying about how evil the world is because he never had a pony (or that Hungry Hippo game. Even I had that.) Perhaps this calls for an intervention.

“Pastori-i, you’ve got to chill with all the shows,” I’ll tell him.

“Can’t. Stop. Must see [insert name of hard core band here].”

“But honey, we’ve been eating generic party mix twice a day for three months!” his girlfriend will say.

“I don’t care if we starve, woman, I must get to the Khyber at least once a week,” he’ll reply, as he walks away to his favorite corner, bearing a sign that says "Will fuck for front row seats," wearing an Oingo Boingo t-shirt, hot pants, and heels.

It’s his loss. The real reason he’s not going to the show is because he’s scared of what’ll happen when the band plays “Michael.” With all those beautiful boys on the beautiful dance floor, he’ll find himself dancing like a beautiful whore. And I’ll be there with a camera, ready to upload that scary image all over the Internet the following day.

Whatever. Since everyone else bailed, The Honey and I will roll to the Electric Factory only two deep. But that won’t stop us from causing trouble. The twins want to come out and play.


I think my face says “I give a crap about everything that has ever happened to you. No, I do, and I want you to tell me every last detail.” I know that’s a lot for a face to say, but people are constantly telling me things about themselves that I really don’t want to know. I can give you the rundown about the woman who just took my passport photo: Her son is a single parent. His wife left him for his best friend. He’s got diabetes. His kid is high strung, and he goes to be late and wakes up with the sun. Her son just bought a condo, two miles from his parents. I can tell you how much he paid, how much they made on the sale of his house, and who’s name it was in. Her daughter’s on a trip in Europe. She went to Scotland, England, France, and Ireland. She has three days left on her trip. She’s on the trip with her husband, who’s British, and another couple. Her British husband summered in Scotland, so he knows his way around quite well. There are probably 20 other tidbits I could tell you about this woman, but I’ve shared enough. It’s bizarre, really, and had I been a shrink at least I could turn the problem into a cash cow. What can you do when that happens? You can’t be rude and walk away, because if this person is sharing intimate information with a stranger, she must not have many people to talk to. Or she just doesn’t give a fuck. Or, I just have a face that says, “Tell me the shit that no one else wants to hear. Because that's what I'm here for.”


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