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July 16, 2002
I forgot how addictive videos
I forgot how addictive videos are. I met Charlie at Stonewall for a drink after work. I've never been there before, it's actually a mellow bar at six pm, and they have soap and towels in the bathroom. I'm a big fan of knowing that the bartend can wash his hands after he's gone to the restroom. Charlie took off, and now I have to finish my happy hour Rolling Rock (actually, a total of four beers). What torture. On the video screen are some carefully selected videos, and I can't seem to carry on a conversation. I'm mesmerized by the fluid images, the kinetic entertainment, the A.D.D. fix. I'm transported back to my early teens, sneaking out once my parents were asleep to watch "Night Tracks" on TBS. My sister Bonnie and I felt so rebellious, because everyone knows that videos are a tool of the devil. The penalty was missing early morning cartoons, something I still continue to miss. I love videos, the strange barrage of images that assault the senses, provisioners of ten second gratification.
This bar is great, the music is pounding, but not distracting. It reminds me of my early college days, where I would do homework while some bad band was sweating onto my notebook. I was oblivious, as I thrive in chaos, worshipping some kind of pagan god who blesses confusion or convulsions. I hate to study in some library, I have always found silence oppressive. The people swarm about, searching the happy hour free food for something tasty, moving on to something tasty sitting at the bar. A ridiculous cowboy hat person swaggers about, my urge to castrate looms. I have this recurring issue with cowboy hats. People who have never seen a horse should not wear a cowboy hat. I don't want to pull a Dubya and do some form of capital murder, but I have to feel that one earns a cowboy hat. I've earned a cowboy hat, even though I don't wear one. I'm waiting for my step-mom to mail me my old one, or at least one of my dad's castoffs.
Back to the videos. Love 'em. Videos are perfect noise in the background. No cable at the Swanktuary, my home in Brooklyn, although we have some sort of strangely random collection of movies on the IFC channel for free. I love indie films that are chock-full of angst, unexpressed emotions, and no explosions. To contradict their normal program, they showed a Peter Jackson film from his early days called "Brain Dead", which is so full of violence and gore that I was hypnotized within two minutes. Anyone who can use a lawn mower to kill the undead should be allowed to direct a film. It's a new classic for me, alongside the Evil Dead series and maybe Buckaroo Banzai.
I love this bar! These people amaze me! I'm at one with the universe! I think I should stop drinking.
Posted by G at July 16, 2002 10:36 PM