Dealing With V D

Valentine's Day. A day to send text messages to select individuals containing the curious greeting "Enjoy your V D!"

The scene is Downtown Crossing T Station. Our hero is being eyefucked by a Mormon teenager, all dressed up with a name tag, while in the background, an elderly woman singing Johnny Cash covers has completed her personal rendition of "Ring of Fire," and has moved on to a hauntingly inapplicable version of "Boy Named Sue."

The afternoon was spent smoking hookah and sipping Maker's Mark on the rocks with Colin, watching a special on the Alamo hosted by David Carradine. It is now clear that Carradine received absolutely no direction in his role as Bill in Kill Bill Vol. 1 and Kill Bill Vol. 2, confirming a new level of David Carradine's coolness. He is the man.

As for the evening, I met up with an alarming number of familiar faces at The Roxy in the hopes of getting my dance on. I don't think I've ever been part of so many grind-chains. They just kept happening. One minute someone's backin' it up on me, the next minute I am sandwiched with at least two people undulating somewhat-rhythmically on either side of me. This is fine if the goal is to work up a semi, but I had come to bust moves to repetitive beats, and would not be denied.

And so the mission was a complete success, the only casualty being about five to ten percent of my ability to hear. When I was younger, I recall expressing fervent distaste for the deluge of decibels that is club music. I become completely deaf on the dancefloor; surely the loudness was keeping me from enjoying meaningful drunken conversation.

These days, I see the deafness as an absolute defense against enjoying meaningful drunken conversation. Several individuals tried to say things to me, but I just issued some makeshift sign language to indicate my sudden disability and kept on grooving into the night.

I cannot hear you, because I am awesome.