Amy is standing in her walk-in closet, browsing methodically down row after row of shoes. She is sorting through color, type and image with the stocisim of a seasoned reasearcher- iron cold objectivity and pure, smooth rational thought. For Amy, choosing which shoes she will wear is a very important and delicate situation that can be likened to choosing a husband or inspecting a car before driving it off the lot.
pink sling-back Manolo Blahnik, red kitten-heel Jimmy Choo, black kitten-heel Knock Off But A Pretty Damn Good One Jimmy Choo, lime green pointy toed flat Christian Dior, burgundy faux snakeskin loafer Pradas with matching bag...
It sometimes takes her an hour to find just the right pair. Sometimes, it's like a breeze of perfect inspiration in a dry spell and she instantly snatches them off the shelf and heads out the door. Today is one of the slower days for her. She's wearing black semi-flared carpi pants and an open backed sari-silk tank top with gold chains to hold it together. It's a lusciously devious appropriation of ethnic clothing coutured to fit her half-japanese, neo-hippy image. However, since the outfit is so deliberate and complicated, she must shoes which are equally deep and intricate (without being gawdy). The wrong shoes could throw off her style completely and give those around her the idea that she is not a socially conscious and sophisticatedly worldly being. God forbid someone think she's a tawdry tangle of random frou-frou elements or, even worse, a Vogue Magazine drop-out.
It needs to look Indian without saying "Look at me, I'm doing the Indian thing." Or maybe I shouldn't do anything else Indian but the top- Man, there goes the Belly Chain Idea. Hrm. I guess I could scrap the Belly Chain Idea and maybe throw in some Victorian Style jewelry. But then I'm mixing in the whole Victorian/English idea in there and the English really oppressed the Indian people for a while and I don't want to seem like I support that whole Dyer Massacre thing or Ugh the East India Company. No no no that's bad. Maybe I should just wear a locket so I look sentimental. But then people might think I'm still with Ian. That wouldn't so much matter if he showed up looking good tonight, but, knowing how long it's been since I ditched his ass, he's probably all scruffy and nasty and not even in a hot post 12 monkeys kind of way. Maybe I should just wear my olive green tweed H&M jacket with my gold Emmanuel Ungaro sandals. Yes! That's it.
She dashes over and snatches the sandals up, then turns to rifle through her clothing until she finds her olive green tweed H&M jacket. With her spoils found, she sits on the edge of her bed and slips each gold Emmanuel Ungaro sandal on- first left (slip, buckle) then right (slip, buckle) and stands up to look in her full-length mirror. This is the sans-jacket me. Not bad. Flirty and slap-dash, yet clean and coiffed. She then grabs her olive green tweed H&M jacket and slides in each arm- first left, then right, then tie the belt and adjust the faux flower on the lapel. Perfect. Amy is now polished and ready for battle. Gotta make him know what he lost for being a loser.
She then walks back to the closet and randomly chooses a Triple Five Soul shoulder bag it's the random accents that make an outfit go beyond fashion to truly individual and throws her keys, make-up and cell phone inside. Amy then crosses back to the mirror to double-check herself and then turn on her heel to stride out of her apartment like a panther on the prowl.
Amy closes the door to her new place and walks down the old, creaky stairs and out the front door. Her apartment is ancient looking and shabby from the outside, which is exactly how she likes it. His car is sitting there out on St. Paul street just waiting for her, bass pounding the pavement beneath it. She smiles casually and takes her time walking over before opening the door and stepping into the car. Shedding old skin sure feels good.
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A million elements must be correctly balanced for a warehouse party to be a true success. Firstly, you have to make sure that the space is big enough to fit everyone without being so big that it looks like no one is at your party. Then, you have to clean it so up so it doesn't like like a total hell hole, while still making sure that it looks appropriately grungy and exposed (everyone is into "exposed" architecture lately... it's like a nice, pretty-polished hovel... so Starbucks). You have to segregate the space into its own micro-spaces that each serve a different function and cater to all of your different types of guests: the Dancefloor for the ravers/excito-goths, the pillow and blacklight infested Chill-Out Space for the E-tards, the Down-tempo room for the pseudo-intellectuals, hipsters and people who actually like good music, the Dungeony Industrial room for the true Goths and Neo-Cyberpunks, the Bar for, well, everyone and the stark Art Gallery room for the scenesters to all pretend like they're here for some aura expanding reason that has nothing to do with getting drunk.
When all that is decided, the fun part comes of outfitting all of these areas to fit the needs of all of the aforementioned groups: pillows for sitting, whips for hitting, candy for wearing, water and beer and vodka and red bull and everything else for drinking. Drapes must be hung for effect, drapes in some rooms must be taken down for minimalist effect, blacklights must be added and strobes as well. If you're lucky, you can spring for a fog or foam machine and really make it a lovely time that will be well esteemed.
Then, oddly enough, one of the last things to be done is choosing the talent and the art to be shown. It's usually a friend of a friend as the opening dj in any of the rooms and then, with the right saavy you should snare at least one or two high-end local favorites to come (but not too many, because that's way too close to corporate MTV tour for this type of scene). Then you figure out where they are gonna spin and what type of goodies you have to stock for them and then, finally, you promote them.
sigh.
Then, if you're Darian and your party is supposed to culminate in exactly two hours from now, you do what you must- get stoned. Because the worst thing that could possibly happen would be for the host to seem actually concerned with any of the running of his party. You have to look flawless and effortless.
Darian is meditating on the slow-loop of a bong gurgle as he inhales and holds-
Love ya Love ya Love ya Love ya Love ya Love ya Love ya Love ya Love ya
and lets go. He passes it on to Jimmy who does the nod of silent comeraderie and then takes his turn. He inhales, holds, releases. Then he sets it down and turns to Darian.
"You ready?"
"I think so. I dunno, can one ever really be ready?" He takes the bong with a sage-like reverance and hits it again.
"Word. Man, that's so true."
He exhales hhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa and sighs, sinking back into the velvety Pier One pillows and closes his eyes. I have always loved the Chill-Out Room.
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"Hey girl, man you're smokin'." He leans over to Amy and begins to creep his hand un her knee to rest on her thigh. An unidentifiable trance anthem is blaring in the background.
"Thanks." Smokin'? Where do guys get this shit?
He smiles at her lasciviously, "De nada, babygirl. I'm just telling it like it is."
Amy smiles back through lipgloss plumped lips. "Cut it out with the babygirl shit or I'm out of here so fast, ok?" She takes his hand off her thigh and shoves him away from her.
"Chill out girl, damn. I'm just playing with you." He smiles and reaches in his pocket and produces a bag full of pills. "I got a present for your big night."
Amy looks at him incredulously and shakes her head, "You sure know how to treat a lady. Please, there is no way I'm doing one of those around you."
"Why not? These are some primo shit. Only the best for my Amy. " She looks out the window, and rolls her eyes. "Oh, Come on, girl. I promise I'll be good." He puts his hands up and mocks an innocent look.
Amy stares him down. Ever since that party I've had half the boys in Baltimore drooling over me. At first it was kind of cute, but now this shit is too much. "Look, I just don't think I'm in the mood to party tonight, ok? So cut it out. Can we just GO?"
"Pshh, fine." He turns from her and opens the bag and takes out a pill. Reaching over her, he takes a water bottle from the passenger floor and stares back at her. "This shit is probably too much for a little girl like you to handle, anyways. Wouldn't want you crashing on me." He smiles at her and gulps the pill and washes it down in one swift motion.
Amy sneers at him, "Pill me up, bitch."
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posted by the ineffable b @ 6:17 AM
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