Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Why do I have to be Mr. Pink?

Friday was one of the weirdest Rickshaw nights ever. Weirder than Robin Williams partying with the Club ID boys. Weirder than frat hippies drinking shots from a ski contraption. Weirder than Bobby rolling under a pile of coats on New Year's Eve.

See, the Russians were back in town. Previously, the promoter had brought us the Russian Tom Waits, the Russian Bob Marley, and the Russian Melissa Etheridge. (Only the first artist was actually billed that way; the others were how we came to describe them. This activity got a bit out of control, as you will see.)

This time it was supposed to be RTW coming back, with the added excitement of a 16-year-old's birthday party. But the US government, in its infinite wisdom, felt that it would send a message. Nothing says "We're tougher than you" than not letting a Tom Waits impersonator into your country.

So, instead we got the Russian Bob Mould. Seriously. He was big and bald and made a huge racket even though he was playing solo. Just like Bob Mould. The crowd ate him up. Of course, the crowd was heavily lubricated. I bet most of the people there had never been to New York, but they sure knew about Long Island.

One guy -- with his shirt unbuttoned farther than most guys in Long Island -- got a bit too wasted. So wasted that it was rather comical. He couldn't decide which he'd rather do: fight a guy or drink his beer. He kept grappling with one and then switching to the other. Even though he was only 5'2", it took three guys to toss him out (and only one girl to step on his glasses).

After Russian Bob finished, the night got weirder. The birthday girl's parents had hired a DJ to play what sounded like bad candy raver psi-trance from 1993. The Russians immediately ran for their credit cards like Gavin Newsom for a bottle blonde (or a good bottle of merlot). And the teenagers? They stayed upstairs, played strip foosball, and committed some of the most vigorous and disturbing dry humping to grace our harrowed halls.

Finally, it was time to go home. As I was taking out the recycling, the Russian Steve Buscemi stumbled up to me, mumbling something. "I'm sorry, what?" I asked. He leaned in and slurred, "I want to thank you for the kind service." Well, I couldn't shake hands since both hands were full, and he seemed to want to thank me physically. So he leaned in further, and I realized that he was going to do some continental air kiss, like in the movies or in France. (The one time I had gone to visit Chris in Paris in 1999, I had made a fool of myself by kissing cheek instead of air. I had hated the air kiss ever since. If you're going to kiss, kiss like the Italians. Full on.) Only, the Russian Steve Buscemi wasn't interested in an air kiss. He planted one right on my left cheek.


The Russian Steve Buscemi had surprisingly soft lips.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

ach das homoeroticism ist eine nuisance eroticism.
too bad the church of buscemi website died.

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