Music for chameleons
Jack is on vacation. In his absence, we present posts from Jane, who is also on vacation.
Another day in the luscious and infernal Cherry Grove. It just keeps going. I suppose I should tell more anecdotes in order to make my hijack worthwhile. Something worth reading. (Apologies for not performing better under pressure!)
The only thing exciting that’s happened recently is that I got stung, bit, irritated by something. Swimming in the sea, kicking my girlhood siren fantasy — or desperately scrapping for a lobster-boy pass, as Rob calls her funny orange turbo-tailed nerfball that we pat about in the surf — it’s impossible to isolate the incident. Somehow I wound up with a Farrah-Fawcett-Burning-Bed-style bruise/laceration on my trunk. At first I thought it was just the result of a mid-afternoon wrestling match between me, Rob, and Cassandra (the fabulous one of the bunch) that shook the rafters of Tee-Pee House. A match that resulted in bruises upon all and the death of my sunglasses for which I performed an instant Irish wake that garnered the applause of all.
Then I woke up this morning with a profound burning sensation, itching and burning, and a truly spectacular wound on my belly. I dare those dykes to do such damage! I’m guessing it was a jellyfish or some otherworldly kraken-plant that I grazed in the midst of my stupefied pleasure. Jellyfish. I tend to doubt knowing the venomous Gulf of Mexico jellyfish that I sparred with during my youth on the Florida panhandle. Apparently there are dainty jellyfish on Fire Island, that just flirt with the idea of hurting you and then quickly retreat before you can get any sort of hold on them. Barf! Clichés all around! I’ll tell you, this place lends itself to them.
A couple of nights ago we decided to head to the local seafood galley for lobster night. We ate tiny $25.00 lobsters al fresco in view of the rising rose-colored moon bobbing along to the tunes of the shirtless piano player. What more could you ask for? Well, you could ask for him to play one of the better tenor numbers from Les Misérables…. But, you know what? No need to ask! He’s on it. He’s on it. Bring him home!
I had to confess upon my enthusiastic joining of the chorus that I know this material well. As a baby-goth drama princess, I sang the whole soundtrack innumerable times, each vocal part in fact. The gang were astounded but not terribly enthralled.
I shouted “And you call yourselves gay!”
“I’m a dyke, not a faggot!” thundered Cassandra. “Give me Iggy Pop, give me Bryan Ferry! Give me FUCKING New Order. But DO NOT give me SHOW TUNES!” standing and pounding her fists on the table.
‘Nuff said. Maybe I’m not just gay, but a gay man….
by Jane, August 25, 2006 3:04 PM | More from Drinking & Women | More from Jane | More from The Damned Human Race
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