Today is a day for soothing influences.
Over the past two days, in casual conversation, I've been given examples of creatures that would dwarf bed bugs in terms of the grossness and vastness of infestation. So now, a day after the extermination (I counted 22 bites on me this morning), I thought about what, besides bed bugs, I would rather not share intimate sleeping time with.
Behold: The List of Creepy Bedfellows
10). Cockroaches
9). Cicadas
8). Zombies
7). Sham-Wow Guy
6). Bewitched used condoms
5). Evangelical Christians
4). Herpes
3). A mannequin made from the faces of all 44 U.S. presidents
2). A balding, middle-aged man, and an emo kid, blended into the same person, like a salty milkshake of ennui
1). Rod Stewart
Although, I just found a bug bite in my ear (my fucking ear!), and am realizing that I would share my bed with almost anyone/anything on that list...minus Rod Stewart...but I'd probably let him sleep on the couch if it meant the bed bugs would leave. Honestly, I think the real reason that the bedbugs continue to thrive despite the fog of pesticide that's drifting around our kitchen is that the exterminator forgot one critical ingredient of annihilation: Chuck Norris. Perhaps, during the next round of fumigation, Chuck Norris can seduce or battle the bed bugs into destruction. Until then, new subject.
Last night, I went to my first outdoor concert in Brooklyn (it was David Byrne) at Prospect Park. Park Slope is a beautiful area, full of brownstones and tiny restaurants that line their windowsills with bottles of wine. It's definitely more clean-cut than Williamsburg...unless, of course, you are one member of a throbbing hoard of people waiting to enter the David Byrne concert. Slightly drunk from the paper-bagged forty you've been sipping, irritated by the furry gnats that keep wriggling into your pores, lusty for pumpin' jams and girls in gladiator sandals, there is only one way to respond to authority, and, more specifically, the compulsory formation of a line: apathy.
When my friends and I got to the park, we were shocked to find hundreds of rowdy 20-year-olds neatly waiting in the kind of snaking, endless, convoluted line that defies logic. I'm convinced it was a trick to discourage the faint of heart, or the really stoned...and it worked.
Still, it was a lovely night, and good to be in the open air. For me, night summer city air has such a unique smell and feel: it has a sourness to it like gasoline, and it's a little thicker than air in the country, so thick that it diffuses light and makes things glow that would normally sparkle. You know me, I love my muted tones. There's also something about being in a crowd of people at night that's different, and so much better, than being in a crowd during the day. People are bleary-eyed and silly, accidentally treading onto your blanket in the dim light, spilling beer into the grain of a tree root, catching fireflies. Absorb this, I tell myself, whenever I'm in these cool and chattery places.
Anyway, had David Byrne been playing in the softball field at the very edge of the park, then we would've had a great view. We were convinced he would emerge from under the pitcher's mound in a cloud of smoke and lazers, but alas, we were content to watch the fiery loops made by the ends of lit cigarettes. In the end, we were drunk, outside, and able to hear the bass line of most of Byrne's songs, so we were happy.
Guh, this entry has made me tired, and I'm ready to pursue the soothing materials mentioned in the title of this post. Have a good night all!
- Wolfie
No comments:
Post a Comment