johnny9fingers | (no subject)

Ten minutes after my previous LJ post I was sitting down trying to change a plug on a power supply for my GNX3. I was stripping the cables with a scalpel (stupid boy). Somehow or other I managed to put the scalpel through my left index finger tip. Blood everywhere, and much panic and pain, dammit. This was three hours before soundcheck.
Sticking plaster on I loaded the car and drove to the gig, taking with me that wonderful guitarist's salvation: superglue. When I arrived I removed the plaster and applied a layer of superglue across the wound (please don't try this at home unless you really need to), and completed the soundcheck. I don't normally take painkillers, and I've never taken painkillers with alcohol, but there's a first time for everything. An hour before the first set I took two ibuprofen washed down with a large can of 'wifebeater' as Stella Artois is known in these parts.
The first set was pretty painful, but still manageable.
The wedding audience were hell-bent on enjoying themselves and had been drinking copiously, and many were dancing like madfolk of the nicest kind, which rather took one's mind off things.
Half-an-hour's break and we were into the second set: wound on finger still superglued shut.
The audience were by now considerably drunker and really enjoying themselves. Some of the women were getting...a bit...(looks for euphemism) frolicky. After the set a particularly attractive (but hugely drunk) woman collared me as I got off stage and started talking in a somewhat slurred fashion. Honestly, thought I, why don't the sober ones ever try to engage me in conversation? However after five minutes or so when I still hadn't made a pass or anything (am still a gentleman and drunk women....well, they're off limits) she said to me (and this shows just how drunk she was, because she can't have been focusing properly)
' You're so beautiful (hahaha), I know just the man for you.' [Falls off her chair and hiccups.]
Aaaarrghh!
I tried, gently, to explain the fact that I preferred women, in fact am exclusive of my own gender when it comes to the physical. Finally managed to extract myself from further humiliation and packed up my kit.
Sometimes it just seems that whatever is ironic in life is always destined to be the piano that descends from above at 9.81 metres per second per second acceleration to land squarely on my head, Wily E Coyote style.
Fuckit. I'm not gay yet, but the enemy gender certainly have a talent for making me wish I'd been made slightly differently.
There's always chastity, which I deem to be somewhat better than demeaning myself with such folk.

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A lot of girls believe me to be gay. Not due to looks, but do to the fact I have been single for 2 years and don't incessantly make piggish comments. Which makes me want to say fuck being a gentleman and bend one over to prove them wrong. Girls are stupid.

i) I'm not beautiful. So there's really no excuse.
ii) I was prepared (if she had given it me) to take her number and find out what she was like when sober.
iii) Apparently her boyf was there too. (Got away without getting involved in a fracas - a win.)
iv) If she'd been sober and still thought that (some folk have eccentric taste - though it would have to have been very eccentric in this case) then perhaps.

Weddings do strange things to women. Very strange things. Mixing alcohol in with the mix is asking for trouble.

Perhaps playing in a Wedding Band gives me a bit of a skewed picture of women. I'm prepared to believe such is the case, and that most of the time they're sensible and not prone to alcohol induced lunacy. But you are right: add alcohol and out pops the cloven hoof. But that's often true of men too, and not just at weddings.

. . well, an alternative view is admire her gallant attempt at wit, even while drunk.

. . . . poor j8finger.

I used to go dancing at this alternative club in the 90s. It was back when college music was still a bit obscure, so alternative nights were the only time I got to hear anything off the beaten path. I'd show up about 10, toss back a few Maker's and cokes, and dance for the next four hours. This was not social dancing, it was aerobic activity. I didn't dance with anyone, I just claimed a space on the dance floor and let what was in, out. About one am, I was usually dripping sweat, and me and my friends were all the same way about this.

One night, this girl comes up while I'm dancing and sorta gets in my personal space. She's smiling at me, so I dance with her for a little. I ask her name and she just stays silent. I tell her mine, and she stays silent. I laugh and tell her I don't usually dance with anyone, and she stays silent. Finally, I kinda laugh and excuse myself. I go chat with some friends, and a little later she grabs me and drags me back onto the floor. I laugh a bit, and try to engage her in conversation again. She stays silent the entire time. Finally I look at her and say, "Look, you're a beautiful girl and all, but I don't dance this way with ANYONE, and since you aren't talking to me, I'm gonna move on." She looks at me and says, "What? are you gay?"

That's it... that's the first thing she said to me. Yeah, that flew well.

They're all 'Nique, really, aren't they. And we're all Slick, dammit.

The (hahaha) was mine not hers. She, poor thing, alcohol goggles on etc, seemed in earnest, alas. If it had been wit, or an attempt, I would have tucked my card into her handbag (or even the cleavage that she pressed upon me) and hoped she'd call. Wit when very drunk indicates (in general) a high base level of mental activity, which is attractive in itself.

Stella = 'wifebeater'. Lolz.