You Start Your First Two Months In A New City, Hating It

You call it things to hurt it and sympathize for the people who chose to come here. It’s impossible to understand that over 2 million people make it their home. Every day it's the same: it’s cloudy, you walk the same ways so often that the people are familiar and stark. Not even the crazies grab your attention.

Life becomes an elaborate dance of knowing you can do better, but hating that you’re even making the effort to find something worthy of your interest and time. You become a conscious self-righteous asshole, continuously feeling guilty for not feeling guilty.

All you have are your goals, your dreams. If you put your head down enough, you’ll save and become closer to your dreams. You become content with the redundant and allow life to happen and life happens.

Reluctantly you agree to meet up with people at 1am: a recipe for a mess and believe me at the end it is a mess, but it’s the events that lead up to it that are the bread and butter.

Bread: let’s set the scene.

Rock up to the bar on a Thursday night expecting a small crown of devotees sitting alone at their respective tables to discover you could not be more wrong. The building used to be a strip club from God knows when. The 20’s. The place has energy and it is buzzing. Up-do’s, curls, bow ties and dresses. You are not dressed right in your 2-year-old flannel, but the bar grabs your attention. Beards, mustaches and whiskey.

You’ve forgotten all pretenses; you’re in. Absorbed in the era.

Butter: insert the free spirits.

And by free spirits I mean the carefree souls you’ve happened to encounter in the desolate land of a place nicknamed after the land of sin: Vegas.

Insert banging tunes and a potential fairy in disguise wearing a scarf as a shirt, blue pants and mystically blond hair with a fringe brushed with purple. She was dancing barefoot amongst the group of jiving up-do'ed and suspender wearing characters to completely different music that only she could hear.

A suave gentleman in a clean-cut dress shirt walks up to the dance floor with a sip left in his beer observing her bizarre, hypnotizing movements. He takes a few paces past her, finishes his drink. Gently placing in on the stage, turning part way around giving the blond a sideways glance teaming with mystery. Casually he slips off his black dress shoes and begins to dance in an equally odd way with but not with her. Slowly joining in unison until they are one entity dancing in a world of their own, like waves on the water: one mimicking the other. Ever so slightly different, but perfectly complimentary. It is everything Quentin Tarantino dreamed of and more that he couldn’t quite capture and you just watched it unfold in front of you while sipping on some good whiskey. 

Bread and Butter.

Written July 12, 2013