Kermit Where Art Thou? #62

Posted on August 12, 2011


Last night an old friend of mine from the city invited me to go out dancing with her to a free event, held in a new, wannabe cool hotel on Tenth Avenue right near the tunnel to Jersey.  This friend of mine is one of those people who never asks how you’re really doing, how you’re feeling, or how your writing’s going.  She is someone who appears in the realm of nightlife. A wingman, so to speak.  One of those people you go out with, score guys with, and dance with when the song is good.

I accepted this invitation in the midst of a heated all points bulletin search for the lost Wendy’s coupon.  My mother said, “Why are you blaming me?” to my father.  He said, “Because you take everything and throw it out.  You have no comprehension of worth.”

“Yeah, everything is my fault.  You’re not a messy slob,” she replied. 

“Did you make my chocolate milk?” He wailed out.

“How can I make your chocolate milk if I’m looking for the Wendy’s coupons?!!” she screamed.

“Stop yelling at me and make my chocolate milk.  Please,” he added considerately.

“Make your own chocolate milk,” she said.

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!  Here it is!  Under the table!  The dog took it!” he screamed to the back row of Yankee Stadium.

And so it went.  A typical day in the household where I currently reside.  The thought of a night out with alcohol at my disposal was nonetheless something I jumped at wholeheartedly.

The night was promoted by the same promoters who did the Wednesday night joint I made my sloshed appearance at months ago.  Perhaps it should’ve been no surprise, then, when I found one face in particular so familiar.  A guy who looked like a thin, cute version of Adam Corolla with many dimples.  It was Kirby – whom I referred to as “Kermit” last time I met him and he ditched me for younger, sluttier, female prey.

To my surprise, my heart didn’t leap, my focus didn’t turn laser-like upon him, and I didn’t care all that much.  I felt that this was an imminent sign of my tremendous growth, and that despite the depressions that brought me here, I somehow had managed to develop huge confidence. 

Instead, I only cared about alleviating my “reality” by letting loose and enjoying a night without the abuse of my mind and its negative thoughts.  A wild night on the dance floor, fueled by the healthy exertion of energy to the music.  I began this healthy venture with a trip to the bar for a cranberry and vodka.  “Make it a double,” I said to the bartender who looked like an Albanian version of Colin Farrell.  He confirmed my order with such friendly facial gestures, I felt loved, supported, accepted and in the right place and time.  A convergence of all good things that some would call “heaven.”  He put the drink down and gave me back the credit card slip that read “$24.”  Whaaaat???  My broke self just paid $24 for ONE drink?  My callous friend just looked at me and said, “You better sip that shit slowly.”

Luckily for me and my bank account already in overdraft, I’m a lightweight.  In fact, such a lightweight, that I was loose after five sips, and completely sloshed by half way through. 

When a mousy person grows a pair of balls, and then gets sloshed on top of that, said person is likely to be “on fire,” as it were.  Kirby was staring at me.  Not only like he knew me.  But, like he wanted me.  You know why?  Because I didn’t give a shit about him.  Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating about him wanting me – he might have just been trying to place where he knew me from.  But as far as I was concerned, EVERYONE wanted me.  I started dancing and waving my newly washed hair from side to side, like I was in a Scorpions video.  While feeling utterly en fuego, and with Kirby just a few feet away, I looked over, and in my best attitude of disinterest, said, “Hi.  I met you at Le Poisson Rouge didn’t I?”  With more warmth than the Global Warming sun in July, he laughed, said “Yes!  How are you?  How’s your summer?”

I smiled, imagined I was Julia Roberts in a spy movie, and said, “Great!  So good to see you.”  And, I swiftly turned around and returned to my dance moves as if he no longer existed.  How cool am I? I thought. 

I danced to a butchered version of one of my favorite Stevie Wonder songs.  I hate when DJs suck.  But, as far as I was concerned, I was on stage and could not halt my performance at such a crucial time.  Kirby was looking.  I had the power.  But, then he was gone.  How could he walk off without demanding my number with an apology for how poorly he left things last time?  How could he leave the epicenter of such magnificence?  Oh well, I thought.  I am my own party.  He’s probably going to have sex with his friend in the men’s bathroom.

A few sips later and I went in search of Kirby.  There was no one else to flirt with.  Or I was drunk and in need of some witty parlance.  Or, he appeared so hard to get – again!

I’m glad I maintained my balance, because for some reason, it felt like I was back on the moving cruise ship again.

My friend and I walked all the way to the women’s bathroom in the back.  Like the keen anthropologist that I am, I couldn’t help but notice all the New Yorkers of today.  Trying so hard to be members of some superficial elite who wear sunglasses, expensive heels, and spend their overdrafts on an appearance that might earn them the stamp of cool from the invisible team of judges.  So sad.  It used to be about soul. 

All of this only fueled my fire when we passed a scattered bar area to find Kirby talking to an Asian girl overly done up in eyeliner and signature sundress.  Asian girl was with her boyfriend, which didn’t seem to stop reckless Kirby from inching in for close conversation.  As we passed, I tugged at my friend’s sleeve and said, “Watch this.”  Then I shouted out in my drunkest loudest voice, “WHAT’S UP KERMIT?” 

I really didn’t get the kind of response I wanted.  I don’t know what that is, but there was no applause, no laughter, no “Oh My God – there you are!”  Why do my performances so often get lost in the ethers of dipshititis?

My friend told me I was crazy.  Kermit disappeared – maybe for a threesome, who knows?  And I returned to the dance floor for one last expression of my awesomeness.  I had to put that $24 cocktail to use.  A coup de grace to a house music tune. 

And I rode the Long Island Rail Road home.  Sometimes there is nothing more to claim than just that you were on your own side.  No major make out session in the bathroom with a hottie.  No applause for your dance moves or your wild inhibitions of the mouth.  No one telling you you’re awesome and your journey thus far has been worthwhile.

But simply that YOU were for yourself rather than against yourself.  That for one night you abstained from criticizing yourself, from focusing on everything lacking, and from being a victim of your own negativity.  So the prize of my big night out in the big city that used to be my home was the quiet, calm, approval that I had for myself.  For just being me.  Nothing more.  And nothing less.

Posted in: Humor, Inspiration, Life