A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || February 26, 2001 || 3:20 pm

I fled my smallish town for the lights of the big city (said big city being Birmingham) this weekend. The purpose of the trip was to help my friend Leslie the Great close up shop and get the hell out of Dodge. She is departing our beloved Hellabama for a return from whence she came, some place synonymous with steers and queers and longneck beers.

When I got there, she fixed me a steak first thing. I am now her bitch for life. I haven’t had a steak since my husband became a vegetarian 3 years ago. Not that I couldn’t have a steak if I wanted; hell, Maxim would even cook it for me. I would just feel so guilty buying steak for myself and no one else. Too terribly self-indulgent, or somesuch.

One of the high points of the visit was meeting her present boy toy. We surfed to euphoria with the aid of Rolling Rock (they sure know how to brew ‘em there in Latrobe, mang) and got into big fat conversations on various subjects.

Me being who I am (a.k.a. I Schlep A Crate Full Of CDs Wherever I May Roam), we got into a rollicking banter about music. I mentioned my dislike for the Grateful Dead at one point. Welllll, I don’t have so much a dislike for them as a general apathy, and this does not sit well with your general Dead fan. They are ardent supporters, filled with a cultish zeal for the music of Garcia and company. Every single one that I have encountered thus far feels the need to make me a fucking convert, and that’s the part that gets under my skin. Telling them that, ‘Hey, I really, really like the song ‘China Doll’ ‘ earns me no points in their book.

After boytoy asked me why I did not care for the Dead in his impish, incredulous frat-boy way, I went over the reasons point by painstaking point. ALL valid, mind you, not just some tripe-y nonsense that I pulled from my ass. Thinking the issue settled, thinking that he could grasp my reasonings even if he didn’t agree with them, the conversation twisted and turned from one topic to the next minus any breaks.

“I’m worried about your soul, man….” he interjected about 20 minutes after we had left the subject of music completely.

He is not the first person that has said this to me, for whatever reason, so I was laughing as I asked him why.

He was still hung on the Grateful Dead thing. This made me laugh even harder. I had tears rolling. Leslie the Great, exasperated, yelled, “WILL YOU JUST SIMPLY SHUT UP ABOUT THE FUCKING GRATEFUL ASS DEAD??” whereupon I slid off of my chair in great gales of laughter. I laughed so hard that I was not only worried about my soul as well, but about losing every drop of Rolling Rock consumed to that point.

All in all, a great weekend, and I am tickled pink that someone besides my mother is worried about my soul.

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

RSS feed for comments on this post.

(you know you want to)