a play in no parts. less, even, than a play on words

Characters:

Guy De Guy - He looks like Wayne Coyne from the Flaming Lips, but with a paunch that comes from years of not living the knife-hard life of a touring musician, or perhaps Billy Connoly but less puffy, healthy from not having lived the life of a Scot either. Perhaps he is one of those extremely lucky men in his fifties who can pass for a man in his forties, or even the hippest sixtysomething we have collectively encountered.

Girlie Girl: She is his trophy girl, not a bimbo trophy girl, but a trophy art-girl younger-woman, marriage material girl. The type of girl Guy De Guy can spend the rest of his life with, who's just happens to be twenty years his junior and plenty hot. Big tits wrapped in a Judas Priest t-shirt, Semetic nose and baggy eyes painted dark like a sleepy Cleopatra. The placement of her nosering tells you everything about her that she doesn't offer up voluntarily: she paints, she does yoga, she was born under a water sign while Jupiter had its back turned.

Our Hero/Narrator: A DJ, watching from the other side of the bar. Both paunchy and puffy, but decently dressed, and well groomed. In good shape for an American in general, and downright desirable for a native Chicagoan. Plays the part of a savant. Selectively deaf and mute, he is only allowed to speak when he is adressed himself, or when the conversation is justifiably loud.

Anecdote:

She requests a bevy of songs, by Radiohead, Death Cab for Cutie, Arcade Fire, Roy Buchanan, Monster Magnet, and War. Our hero is happy to oblige when possible, because it means he doesn't have to use his brain. Guy de Guy requests the same song he always requests: The Jimi Hendrix Experience. "Hey Joe".

He tries to explain to her how truly awe-some Jimi's guitar was, like he always does. She rolls her eyes, and he reiterates how beautiful she is. He lunges at her without releasing his cocktail.

He keeps his arm raised as he buries his face in her chest, a toast that this is truly the good life we're all living.

Our hero is running on auto-pilot, Dextromethorphaned and antibioticked out of his head, cotton mouthed, sober and bitter about it. The Cars' "Just What I Needed" plays.

Girlie Girl: I saw them one time, and I was totally making out with one of them after the show and then we went back to the studio to fool around. Not Ric Ocasek, but one of the other ones, the guitarist I think.

A silent poll of the room and a number of cell phones reveals that no one actually knows who was in The Cars. Not google, not Wikipedia, and not the DJ

They're surprised to see their bill come out to seventy-some dollars, but they still tip the room, the bartender, the grateful, fevered DJ. The bartender gives them a coupon for a free appetizer. "Sweet Jane", by the Velvet Underground plays.

"Lou Reed is such an asshole."

"You would know, honey."

The DJ cocks an eyebrow.

"She's Jewish."

"Oh I guess it makes sense I guess."

There is a gleam in her eyes that says that she wants to talk about fucking Lou Reed, just so she can say how bad Lou Reed is at fucking, which while entirely true, is just a device that enables her to talk about fucking Lou Reed without being some starfucker, but apparently there is an agreement between her and Guy de Guy, where she can only talk about one rock star a night. It's almost not fair. Does one of the mystery members of The Cars even count?

Lou Reed hasn't had to work for pussy since Nico, so there's no real reason he should be any good with it once he's got it. The fact that he's a lousy lay, less kinky in fact than his own songs, is overlooked. It's the fact that he doesn't have to work for it, or didn't, that sticks in Guy de Guy's craw. Outwards, he's dopey and drunk, gropey and grateful, but it shows in his eyes. He is wrapped around her as they leave, and the night begins the slow and painful process of giving birth to morning.

[currently watching KAMIKAZE GIRLS]