Talk to Me
Last night, I realized that Reality Bites had a strong hand in forming the person I became in my 20s and 30s, which is probably why I’ve had such poor results.
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Tony Soprano vs. Kurt Cobain
It started in Naples. Mr. Soprano and I had business there, but I don’t remember what it was. It was my first big trip with the boss, and I didn’t want to act out of line. I asked him about his heritage: I’m mixed by Italian standards. My mother’s side is Sicilian, but my father’s side is Napolitan. I said, “You’re probably just pure Sicilian, right?” He didn’t answer me as he moved into the next room.
Later, I was in a high school gymnasium. Nirvana was playing. They were giving an amazing performance, the kind I’ve only dreamed about seeing, since I never got to see them live. Unfortunately, I got to the show late and had to stand in the back. When they finished their last song, Kurt waved to the crowd and he looked sort of childlike. As the crowd started emptying out, I went to the merch table to pick up an item I was entitled to for attending the performance. It was a laminated ticket signed by Kurt Cobain. I thought to myself, “I’m really lucky to have this, considering he’s dead.”
On Friday nights, I usually end up at this karaoke bar—more accurately, a bar that has karaoke on Friday nights. I don’t sing, but my sister and her friends do, and I like to cheer on and sing along from my seat. I can get pretty loud.
It’s the kind of place that people wear sweat pants to without shame or “irony.” It’s the kind of place that makes me wonder why I bothered changing my shirt. Tonight—other than three dudes I saw in sweat pants—there was also a woman in attendance who either had lousy friends or didn’t mind if the world saw a silhouette of her vagina.
She wasn’t a bad looking woman. She had a decent body, pretty face and well-kept wavy blonde hair. She was simply unfortunately attired. She wore a tight white graphic T-shirt that fit her nice and snug, but she paired that with painfully tight khaki capri pants that formed a powerful vacuum seal around her crotch. The camel toe/wedgie combo produced by these pants was hypnotic. It demanded attention. And when she started dancing, I wondered if the friction created by her movements would produce enough smoke to set off the sprinkler system. Later on, she emerged from the bathroom with a train of toilet paper stuck firmly to her hot pink stiletto heel.
…
One of the male performers sang “Where Did You Sleep Last Night”…the Nirvana version. He didn’t do it much justice, but it was the thought that counted. My rendition from my chair probably drowned him out anyway.
