In my quest to be taken seriously as infrequently as possible, I’ve taken up banjo, accordion, card magic, and standup comedy. Last week saw me actively engaged in one of these on a stage for a crowd of semi-interested people.
When you produce an accordion in front of a room full of people, you immediately peg yourself as the opposite of the guy who plays guitar at a house party. Whether you consider it a poor man’s organ or a rich man’s harmonica, an accordion is a sign around your neck that says “I make interesting decisions and I pose no sexual threat.”
My friend Dylan (same name! I know!) has a musical project operating under the name Swampboots. He tagged me in for my vicious accordion skills for a night of quirky folk rock at a music venue called 116 Macdougal, conveniently located at 116 Macdougal Street,. We tore it up alongside Lindsay, a talented singer, and Brian, a first-class violinist. We shook the rafters.
I only take the subway when I have to. Too many elbows to the temple, too many crotches in my face, too many people heading to work in exactly the same direction. The collective mood of a train car on a weekday morning is not unlike that of the Titanic – taking on water and sinking. It’s enough to make you shout out loud, “There HAS to be a better way!”
I had to brave the underground terror tunnels this morning to bring my accordion home – you can’t very well strap a 30-pound accordion to your back and pedal it home on a bike, can you? The transit gods seemed to smile upon me for this occasion, treating me to a pleasant collection of odd sights (and smells) on my way to and from work.
So there’s this girl. Please, hold your applause.
She makes me feel 6’2″ tall. I hear you saying, “But Dylan, aren’t you exactly that height?” I am. It’s that good.
I don’t yet know if it works in that special way you hope all relationships work and neither do you and neither does she. But this thing’s got legs. And so does she.
- curse like a sailor
- cook like Emeril
- ride a bike in heels
- smooch like a black-and-white film star
- brains out to here
- looks out to there
Doubts and worries? I got ‘em. Commitment issues? I have a subscription. Turkey and swiss on wheat? We eat ‘em, then none of that stuff seems to matter so much.
At any given moment I’m 50% ready to party, 50% ready to nap.
Sometimes I’ll nap during your party. I will make your tablecloth into my sleeping bag and your girlfriend into my pillow. I will balance red Solo cups over my eyes to keep the light out. I will ask you without shame to turn off the music and “What’s all that racket for?” I’m that serious about naps.
Sometimes I’ll party during your nap. You’ll be snuggly in your bed, a warm cat tucked under your arm. Then I’ll approach (from where?!) and whisper in your ear, “It’s time to start the revolution.” A gear-and-pulley system swings into action, propping your mattress up perpendicular to the floor. You fall over, delirious, and as your still-asleep body hits the floor a pressure-sensitive switch starts the stereo playing Drowning Pool’s “Let The Bodies Hit The Floor.” Your cat, while flustered, appreciates the joke. I’m that serious about parties.