Why I’m A Loser
I owe you guys a bonus blog. I think the one posted most recently was weak and a bit phoned in, so instead of fretting about it at night while I’m curled up in bed sweating and hugging my Cabbage Patch Kid Rodney, I’ll give you a little story. Likely, this blog will be just as weak as the other, but at least it’ll be shorter. So it’ll be like two shitty things this week made into one giant shitty thing. Like those two douchebags from high school who got married and now have a kid. Two shitty things making one shitty thing.
Story time. This has nothing to do with modification. This is just a story about something that happened to me this week. Enjoy. Or don’t. It’s entirely up to you.
All this summer, I have been playing bass part time in my friend’s cover band. We’ll call him Pat to protect his drunken identity. I only gig with Pat’s band once a week, Wednesday, at a place in Long Beach Island called Nardi’s. It’s about an hour from where I live, and it makes for a pretty long night. It’s a regular cover gig, three sets, two breaks, bar tab, drunk people. Coming from a background of mostly original music, it’s actually a treat to play for more than six people. The songs we play aren’t really my cup of tea; they are more like my cup of piss, but the kids like them and we get paid. This recent Wednesday, my guitar player (we’ll call him Dee), had a tooth pulled earlier in the afternoon. Dee is a great friend and an even better guitar player. He’s a big dude, and his vocal harmonies are unparalleled. Very talented, very cool cat. So he got a tooth pulled that afternoon. A big deal, not very routine, and totally painful. We didn’t cancel the gig because we are all broke sons a bitches. Except Pete, the drummer. He’s just a son of a bitch all around. And a cocksucker. And Pete is his real name. Dee’s face was swollen and in close resemblance to Sloth from “The Goonies.” He was fuct up on pain pills and whiskey. He played perfectly, but his singing was a little drunken. All of this is vitally important later.
Some personal backstory. I am very intimidated around women. I respect women very much, but I’m not great at talking to them. Well, check that. I can talk to the dames, I just can’t seal any deals. The joke is that I’m Steve Carlton and not Tug McGraw. Or of you’d rather, I’m Randy Wolf and not Jose Mesa. Or if you’d rather, I’m Cole Hamels and not Brad Lidge. You get the idea. Or you have no idea who any of those people are and think that metaphor was a waste of time. At any rate, I’m not good with the ladies. I don’t have a high opinion of myself, I don’t think I’m terribly interesting, and even though I talk a shitton, I don’t think I have much to say. This is also important later.
Half way through the first set (which includes a number of songs with the word ‘Girl’ in the title), a large group of people came into the club. They were part of a family reunion, the Anderson family, and featured several foxy dames. Pat worked them on the mic, gave a shout out to their family thing, and repeatedly acknowledged them. Kids seem to like that. Between the first and second sets, two of the girls hung out with us outside as we refueled on nicotine. Very nice girls indeed.
The end of the night comes. We play our last song (I think it was “Use Somebody,” “Sex On Fire,” or “Don’t Stop Believing”), and begin to break down our shit as people leave. Two of the girls from the Anderson family party hang around, and one was talking just to me. Neglecting my cord wrapping duties, I talked to the girl. She was beautiful, and was wearing a pretty descent shoe. She was sweet and moderately interesting, but most importantly, she was talking to me. That never happens. At one point, she asks if we party after gigs. I tell her about the hour plus drive home. She consults with her friend, and then invites us to their beach house. Awkwardly standing in a position in which I am very unfamiliar, I look on stage where Dee is wrapping cables, completely oblivious to the conversation I’m having with the hot girl. Just as I do, Dee winces and holds the side of his face. I tell the girl that I have to get Dee home, and I can’t go to her beach house.
She continues to hang out and talk. In her hand is a schedule card for the band. My plan was this: I’ll take the schedule card, write my number on it, and tell her to text me when she gets settled, and I’ll see what we’re doing (knowing full well I’d be a third of the way home by then). That was the plan. I take the card from her, write my name on it, and as I’m parting my lips and handing her the card, Pete asks the girl a question. She looks at Pete to answer, and takes the card without looking at it, voiding my opportunity to add my line about texting me. A triumphant failure.
They leave. We pack up. We leave. We stop at a Wawa off of the island to eat sandwiches in my car. While eating my turkey and provolone with extra oil, lettuce, and tomato, a light bulb clicks on in my head, and out loud I realize and admit, “I didn’t write my name on the fucking schedule card.” Pat laughs with a mouthful of toasted flatbread, Dee inhales sharply in pain, and we drive home.
As an awkwardly appropriate afterword, the next day I engage in an incredible Facebook conversation with an incredible girl. This girl is the archetype of what I think is sexy, interesting, beautiful, and the most complete and total package I could realize. She makes the girl at the gig seem like a forgettable occurrence. There were butterflies in the belly, excitement in anticipating the next message, and the ‘that’s just about right’ little nugget of information that came to light. She lives on the other side of the country. Two shots in two nights for a guy who never gets the hint of a shot. The only thing you can do is laugh.
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