FireVaney's

PRELUDE This night? It’s for the Bongster’s birthday. I don’t know his age. I know his dog’s age, but I don’t know the Bongster’s . Maybe that’s why they call me the Whizz-Bang. And if you don’t know the Bongster, well, he’s a genius. And a bongster.  At least I’ve sense enough to bring ear plugs. So cut me some slick. I find a spot to leave my Daewoo on Southpaw Ave, near Peeling Park Road. That’s something like a mile from where I want to be, though. And it’s raining. But my Daewoo has umbrellas. It’s got bottled water and protein bars, too. Also: gum, a flashlight, tools, a bottle of windshield fluid, a spare tire, spare change, towels, camping chairs, condoms, maps, and The Club. Mine Daewoo goes everywhere always prepared.  @ COSMO (Part I)  I beat everyone to Cosmo. By “everyone” I don’t mean everyone in the world. I mean “everyone” who’s currently anyone, or at least someone, to me: the Bongster, the Bongster’s bro, Zen, Lass, Nico, & Larr. If you wanna drink at Cosmo, you’

Up in the balcony, two, tall, Carrie-Anne Moss Matrix-esque babes lean against the rail next to me. Pretty sure they were there first. (Everything’s a little hazy from this distance.) One of these shiny, skin-tightly black-clad damsels has her hair flamed supernatural red. What I really wanna say is: “You two look so cool.” But my mouth stays shut. This is their turf, not mine. My getup is way too old school square for this scene.  Save for the fog machine and the gee-whiz robotic motion lights, Cosmo hasn’t changed a bit since my last visit — three jobs, one girlfriend, two U.S. presidents, and four apartments ago. There’s still a long bar off the “orchestra” section (though I’m pretty sure no orchestra has played this venue since the Eisenhower administration) and another one upstairs, in the center of the balcony.  The first band BLARES the last song of its set when Nico surprise-hugs me from behind. Zen’s with her, too.  What’s new? Nico and Zen want to know. Besides trying a no

Apart from the stage lights, this place is lit only by the glowing ends of cigarettes. That must be why nobody (except for me) spots the stray length of ass wipe somebody tracked in. It tangos with a Nike, then rumbas with an Reebok. It finds itself in a ménage à trios with two Dr. Martens, then plays the dominatrix to a pair of Skechers. From stranger to stranger it travels, not unlike a virus.  Nico makes new friends wherever she goes. Often, they’re new guy friends. (Get this: She once hosted a party where she was the only girl present.) Such a flirt. Drives me a little nuts. Not that it should. Not that I have any business being driven a little nuts by it. Not that I really care anymore. But is it possible that she wants to drive me a little nuts?  As for Larr, I don’t know if he’s diggin’ this Cosmo scene or not. Maybe he’s indifferent. Maybe he’s goovin’ in his own private way. Maybe, he’s completely and utterly absorbed. And maybe, in the first place, there never was a whole

@ Shrewd Bar  Ask Zen. Or Nico. Gimme the right music, the right lighting (or too little of it), enough space, and I’m out on the groove-platter like a madman. (Apologies to Holden Caulfield.)  Nico wants me to follow her lead, but I’m doin’ my own thang — ain’t nuthin’ gonna change that. Zen’s tryin’ to match me, but my bod’s doin’ too many different directions at once. Only, what I’m wearin’? It’s no good for movement. Ten (very) odd minutes in, I’m all sweat. Still, it’s been years since I’ve Kenny Loggins cut-loose, footloose like this. (Apologies to Mr. Loggins.)  For everybody chillin’ around Shrewd Bar’s House-jammin’ groove-platter, I’m giving them their money’s worth. Some dude (yes, unfortunately a dude) even compliments me (‘least I think it was a compliment) on my madman moves. Even Zen hangs back to marvel at freaky me.  The groove-platter spins us dizzy (that being its purpose * ) and we stagger back, behind the DJ, to the tabled and chaired shadows. Hanging there is Lass

We’re on our way to Wayne’s Honky-Tonk in my Daewoo. Out of Zen’s mouth slip several nuggets of scandalous family history. And since she reads this, and since I’m already in trouble for my brief mention of it, you’ll have to ask her about it yourself.  The crowd that haunts Cosmo & Shrewd Bar rarely, if ever, mixes with the crowd that haunts Wayne’s Honky-Tonk. But this is only a guess; one based purely on appearances and conflicting musical tastes. But surely you’re allowed to get shitfaced at both haunts.  Whereas Complex Cosmo is all BLARE, Wayne’s is all TWANG.  We’re somewhere between late October 1st and early October 2nd. Either way, tonight is still all about bashing the Bongster’s birthday. Don’t ask me if it was yesterday, or if it is today. Have I even wished him a happy one? It beats the hell outta me if I’ve said anything other than, “Hey, Man!” at him.  So, just in case,  Happy birthday, Bongster!  (He reads this, too.)  There’s a live band, but the honky-tonk platt