Luna

I went to Luna last night.

Intrigued by "free green beer" and the fact that I have never been there . . . plus there was the idea supplied by someone that old punk rockers hang out there, which of course is exactly what one looks for in a future husband . . . I dragged my poor friend H out on St. Patrick's Day.

We met there, so I had to walk in alone. And as I walked through the door, I was magically transported to the year 1988 or 1989 . . . and magically transported to what looked like someone's basement. And as much as I like Joy Division, it's amazing harder to dance to when you are not a depressed, mopey teenager.

Hell yes, I danced. Some sixty year old in Nikes, sweatpants and a baseball cap danced with me. It was very goth . . . or about as goth as it was in 1989 when he was dancing in City Club in less comfortable clothing. And dancing when you are in your thirties to music that you listened to as a teenager? Well, in some ways you are less self-conscious . . . it's your music, you know it inside and out. Your anthems. Rock on. And in some ways, as least I, was more self-conscious because I was well aware how dumb we all looked. My teenage students would have been mortified (and I guess since I am now old enough to be their mother, rightfully so).

We couldn't talk. It was smoky. And really loud. And very dark . . . except for the black lights. And I did not plan for black lights, did not lint brush appropriately. All of this made me long for the Front or the Emory, where I could sit down and have a conversation. Because I am old.

And there was no one that I remotely wanted to talk to, other than the people I was with . . . well, except for the guy in the homemade Ghostbusters costume, but only for these two questions: 1. What does the movie Ghostbusters have to do with St. Patrick's Day? (because the guy in the kilt, I get) And depending on the answer to one . . . 2. Why?

I know, I know, I want to dye my hair blue over the summer and therefore should not judge the man who carefully painted plastic plates and combined them with L.E.D.s to go out, complete with patches on his flight suit. But it's so hard not to.

So Luna . . . some goth kid's basement on steroids . . . with weird "I'm trying to be a suicide girl" bartenders, who don't quite make it (although everyone was incredibly nice) (despite the fact that they were almost naked, and therefore probably cold) some people wearing the same clothes (I did wear my leather jacket, circa 1991, so . . . guilty)

And if I wanna dance . . . well, I like my kitchen much better for the dancing.

And no, the free green beer did not pass by my lips . . . there was Guinness, though it was in a bottle.

Oh, You're Emily? . . . I Puked on Your Car Once

Went to my former place of employment to see Mikey this evening. Shared his resume with my father and needed to debrief him. I made sure that I showed up at last call, so I wouldn’t have too many flashbacks but still ended up carding some jerk for a strawberry stoli. Hate to break it to ya buddy but you’re drinking a girly drink, so don’t try to be all manly when you show the I.D. Mikey just I.D.ed them to be a hassle anyhow.

Now it’s 3 a.m. and I reek of smoke. Will have to wash everything, including myself before I go to bed and my sinuses KILL. Stayed to talk to Sasha . . . one of the people I truly liked working and hanging out with during my tenure in the restaurant trade. Met some fellow named Frank, who then immediately admitted that he threw up on my car when he was eighteen. How charming. Caught up on all the gossip . . . the five years of gossip. Still don’t miss it.

The thing about restaurants is everything works with lighting . . . when you turn them on you’ll find cockroaches, the way the people really look, how dirty and nicotine stained everything is . . . and it’s kind of the same with the personalities. The regulars who were actually into coke and young strippers. The charismatic sous chef with a horrible drug problem. The prep cook that sold heroin out in the alley. All floating in alcohol, like the ancient pineapple that they make the infused vodka with . . . they never change that pineapple . . .

Mikey evidently has a "present" for me . . . and I’m hesitant to find out what it is. Mikey loved that restaurant . . . got me fired in the process of loving it and it was the best thing to happen really. Otherwise, I’d still be looking at cockroaches in flattering lighting while breathing in secondhand smoke and waiting for something to happen.

Good to know I’m so famous that one remembers my car though . . . ahh, Mohawk days.

Daylight savings time saving me

Got distracted and didn't finish the proofs tonight . . . but it was super keen to get out of the yearbook room by 7pm while it was still light. More work for Monday. Plus the English 9 journals that I forgot to bring home. So good to goof off.

Nerdy eharmony demons confirming the conspiracy . . . or reaffirming. Another "request to communicate". I've stood firm in my sabbatical. Sorry John, but I'm working on the premise that people like to be treated with a certain aloofness and so I used the two day rule. Sorry to "Tim" too but one does not want to look too eager. (hee,hee, lecturing about "too eager" and yet subscribing to eharmony. Who am I kidding?) Maybe I should write things during mojito epiphanies more often but since I haven't looked at the profile either, everything could just end up spelled wrong . . . I ramble even when completely sober, so maybe I was brief and to the point.

Ugh, bad mexican food. Hate it. And also hate those restaurants that you always run into people you know . . . but don't really want to talk to.

Also I was a very bad example of a union member today. No marching after school, no marching on the way in (Starbucks had a long line), no marching at all. Now no one will vote for me for union rep. Sadness.