Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Tuesday Night

After the average 10-hour day I walked around the frigid Fenway until I found the skinny Berklee dropout who was selling the Blues Junior. I got it for $300 and carried it to Chris M.'s because cars are for p*ssies. We then drank and played video games where you shoot things. The amp is still there. At Wally's, as I told the tale of the one time I drank a forty of Ballantine's while coding ESL quiz questions for CUNY, some yuppie fuck at the bar says to his counterpart, "I wonder what Ballan-teen Ale tastes like." The Tuesday night band plays the greatest soul-funk you will ever see, and there is no cover, just overpriced drinks. The white keyboardist, who will only talk to you if you're black, is still one of the finest musicians I've ever seen. The crowd lacks the usual quotient of MILF escapism tonight. We leave and get garbage stoner pizza on Mass Ave, made by a skinny international male in a tight designer t-shirt and his stoner counterpart with a considerable gut, white t-shirt, black bandana, and long dreads. There is no reason for these two people to be making pizza together other than that the task somehow involves weed The crust reveals this: it is like a pastry with sauce on it and not good. It is worse even than Greek pizza. So far I have only seen this in Boston and Greenville, NC. Somehow I get to Davis via Central, unsuspected home of the cleanest restroom on the T, where ghetto youth are jumping on and off the train tracks. Snow covers my coat as I walk home. I am glad to have ditched the unwieldy amp. When I get home, the heat is fucked up and the air pockets in the pipes will be wreaking loud havoc all night but I don't care.

This happens one year to the day that Gordon and I closed out Wally's. I don't think I ever heard from him again. I am surprised that I am still alive.



Anonymous Anonymous said...

Greenville pizza!

1:03 AM  

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