Moths

We're playing the foundry tonight in boulder... an experience that usually lands somewhere between genuinely fun and soul-crushing. But what makes it truly entertaining is... that bar -- no shit -- has delivered more "faux lesbian college girl" watching than one man could ever possibly digest.

Seriously, during every set, I swear to God, I see 2 or 3 pairs of girls "partying" and then making out with each other. And these are NOT dedicated, full-time, dyed-in-the-wool lesbians either. They are... sexual tourists, at best. I always see a big cartoon bubble above their heads that reads something like "My mom would freak out if she saw me right now!... Wait... Is that my burrito or her enchiladas I'm tasting?... Her tits are bigger than mine... I hate her for that... Is that boy on stage looking at us?... Oh my god, I'm *so drunk*!!!..."

Am I getting dour and cynical or just... um... jaundiced and sardonic?

Shouldn't lesbian experimentation titillate me?

Bars feel more and more like trips to the zoo to me. Like some biology-meets-anthropology field trip...

"Notice now the nervous humans use alcohol as a tool for social coping... They move in self-aware, ironic herds. Each one is simultaneously aware of the herd it is in (its 'starter herd'), AND the herd it wants to be in (its 'goal herd'). The drive to procreate simply heightens and focuses their neurotic behavior. Look! Over there, by the scowling bartender... A classic mating maneuver!!"

...

Maybe I should quit everything and go teach English in a community college in Tampa... Really. I should stop fighting the tide of my own mediocrity and just slip under the waves. I'll be the guy with suede elbow patches, graying hair and eternal coffee breath. The exhausted sigh will be my specialty. My grading will be completely random... I'll give out F's to anyone who uses the word 'inscrutable' in their essay. Immediate C minus's for anyone who fails to fill their double spaced papers with enough metaphorical content. I'll park my car in the wrong lot. I'll tell everyone, "I'm only working here while I finish my movie script. It's been optioned by Miramax."

There will be no movie script. There never was one.

Eventually, I'll acquire tenure -- academia's way of rewarding sustained non-action. On the afternoon of my retirement, surrounded by my "colleagues" in the English Department, drunk, I will announce that I have prepared a speech...

I'll gently set down my paper plate of white sheet cake and generic ice cream, saunter over to the Dean of Admissions, unzip, and piss on his shoes, slurring, "I've got something I want to admit to you..."

Afterward, I'll enter an ugly retirement, just off campus. I'll shack up with one of my 'students' in her 1 bedroom condo. Dusty afternoons filled with uninspired lovemaking and very bad television. We'll cook crepes on a hot plate beside the bed. Evenings will bring boxed wine on the cramped balcony porch overlooking the community laundry room. It's summer... The humidity is stifling... even darkness doesn't cool things off.

"Darling, leave the light on... I want to watch the moths slam themselves into the light."