Saturday, March 27, 2010


i’m out one night to see some smooth jazz. and this is real exciting because i like jazz and it doesn’t come around these parts too often. oh and this band makes your knees rock and shake and sort of sway and bounce in a real fluid sort of way. and it makes you say ‘yes, yes, go, yes!’ as if you were some beatnik in 1950s san francisco or something. and i’m watching this group go, with a jazz goddess on vocals in a smooth low cut dress. and all of a sudden i’m real sad. i can’t even shake it; sadness that is completely inevitable only i don’t realize that until i’m in it. cos this lady singing away makes me jealous, she’s so perfect and she’s doing all the things that i wanna do. only that’s not really true; i never wanted to sing with a jazz group or any group, i’ve just been drinking too much at this point and think that i’m a sad nobody, or something. but this girl up there is singing away and i think, damn she is just perfect and all i can’t be and i’ll bet ya she get’s to go home with the only guy in the world that would make me happy, and he’ll just love her and lick everyone of her inches of body and i’ll get dog hair on my old stained sweatshirt. but than this girl does something. she’s in the middle of some high sweet note and she starts fixing her dress, but not like some sex machine or someone flirtatiously adjusting some invisible bra. she more grabs at her chest area like she thought the dress wasn’t even there anymore, like the dress had fallen down just a smidget of an inch and exposed some little cute mole that she’s really embarrassed about. and she thinks that everyone notices something that only really a person whose body we speak of could see or care about. like when you think you’re having some amazing hair day or something and not one goddamn person says a thing, cause everyone’s watching their own reflection. and she get’s all antsy about her dress for a few seconds and i think, oh phew she’s as nervous as me. and then the whole narcissistic world comes crashing down on me and i try to drink my ego away even more, but that only fills it up more of course. and i can’t even be out anymore cause the whole mess of jazz lovers around me just reminds me that no one in there really cares about jazz, they just care about looking like they care. and it’s a mind blowing truth that makes me sort of sad. but it’s an oh well kind of a place and well shit, look at the bright side, at least you like her dress and at least you wanna shout ‘go! go! go! jazzy lady keep on going!’

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