I’d been on the road at pagan festivals for the last few weeks, and like a demon possession from a séance gone bad, I brought a hippie chick back with me to the big rusty apple. She was the kind of spun-out gypsy who, when asked “where do you live” would earnestly respond “in what lifetime?” and proceed to talk chakras till dawn. I’d met her after arriving at Starwood, the all-but-self-proclaimed pagan Mecca of Sherman New York, and was quickly introduced to her other boyfriend. He was a drummer too, only he was getting paid to be there. Something felt real good about snaking his girl, since being a drummer at one of these festivals is a badge of insignificance. Everyone does it; they’re a dime a dozen, but only those with some sort of credentials get to make the big bucks. I met this guy as his girlfriend, who I guess I should introduce as Annabella, brought me to his trailer to steal some blankets.
Here was the conversation as it actually happened:
This wasn’t her first attempt, either. Previously she’d tried to swing a three-way between me and her other boyfriend while her pops watched. Needless to say I did my best to bow out of that one, but this time she caught me all sorts of fucked up and ready for anything. Problem was, by the time we got to leaving the bar, there were only 2 girls in the group and about 7 or 8 guys. Annabella wasn’t setting us up for an orgy; she was shooting for a gang bang.
As the second half of the crew drove off to meet us at the apartment, it was Anabella, our friend Stacy, Conrad, Harold and myself who walked down through the Bronx that evening to Washington Heights; the girls stripping down to their panties and screaming the whole way. Crowds were forming around them as they urinated down city steps and fingered each other. It wasn’t long before they were totally naked and walking past the 50th precinct. Harold and I were in a total panic, but the cops just smiled and waved.
When we got to Stacy’s place we were stopped by an off-duty Bx7 line. “HEY YOU GUYS, COME HERE, I WANNA TAKE A PICTURE” the driver shouted. He looked as though he’d had a few to drink himself. He invited us on the bus and quickly explained that he had a camera somewhere and that we’d have to wait for it. In the meantime he offered to drive us around.
This was good enough for the rest of the crew, who hopped into the back, got naked, and began to fuck, but Harold was skeptical – for one thing, we didn’t need to go anywhere, we were already at our apartment, and for another, where was this guy’s camera?
Finally, after the fifth or sixth loop around the block, Harold noticed the driver starting to slip out of his pants. He grabbed us by the hair shouting “THIS IS OUR STOP” and flipped the door switch out of the driver’s hand. As we bolted out into the street, the driver came to a halt and stood at the side of the road glaring at us. For the rest of the evening, each time I’d walk to the bodega to get more beer, he’d be right there in his bus demanding I come over to take care of some “unfinished business.”
Back in the apartment, everyone who’d been admiring Annabella all evening hopped on her like a 25-cent grocery store ride with me in the corner getting drunk. I got into the fray for a little while and even tried shit with Stacy, but it just wasn’t the same. Seven guys to two girls just isn’t right.
Other guys in the room sensed this too and asked if I was really down with them balling my girl. The response every time would be one which, just a week before, I’d been pretty fond of: “a girl like this you can’t control, she’s like the wind.”
As the evening wound down I found myself sitting with a couple of the benchwarmers downing the rest of the 40s. The conversation between them went as follows:
We spent the rest of the day together in the apartment fucking – she’d apparently only been with really lazy hippie lovers and needed a good old fashioned Jersey railing to spice up her life – when she started spouting stuff about love. Not the hippie sort of “I love everybody” routine either, but things like “I know saying you’re the love of my life is clichéd, but you make me LOVE my life and I love you more than anything.” Shit was starting to smell of monogamy, and since we really didn’t have anything else in common, that was all she’d talk about. Every other sentence was about how she could see us together for ever and she would die for me. Every sentence besides that was about the moon being in Aquarius and the spirits mingling with the goddess for some kind of celestial kegger. Needless to say, I was getting a headache.
I took her to a Harlem pickup game and she couldn’t grasp it. She’d honestly never seen basketball before. She told me that these “natives” with their “ritualistic chakra cleansings” were just what she needed to “ease her spirit” before it was forcibly “removed from her body” by the “evil force.” I looked down at my hand and caught that it was tightly wound in a fist. I’d never been this frustrated with anyone before.
“Do you ever listen to yourself speak, or do you just black whenever your lips start flapping?!” I demanded.
She just looked at me and smiled. “I know, I know, I’d be thinking the same thing if someone started spouting this bullshit at me. I’m surprised you’ve even put up with it for so long.”
So needless to say, I’m through with hippie chicks. Somebody get me a nice businesswoman in pants suits.
--Ilan Moskowitz
Deadbeats and Deloreans
Michael J. Fox's Bad Day
Here was the conversation as it actually happened:
“Oh, so you play drums.”And here’s the conversation that wasn’t happening:
“Yeah . . . you too?”
“Uh-huh, this is my big paycheck, I lead the band.”
“Cool, man. Dig it.”
“So you’re here to steal MY blankets to sleep with MY girl?”Well, I sure got a taste of my own medicine when I tried to let Annabella’s crazy antics fly in the secular world of Washington Heights. My band was playing a show, and just as our singer spit the words “I don’t need another lover to complicate the situation,” Annabella was outside rounding up people for an orgy.
“Sounds about right.”
“And this doesn’t bother you?”
“Nah man, a girl like this you can’t control, she’s like the wind.”
This wasn’t her first attempt, either. Previously she’d tried to swing a three-way between me and her other boyfriend while her pops watched. Needless to say I did my best to bow out of that one, but this time she caught me all sorts of fucked up and ready for anything. Problem was, by the time we got to leaving the bar, there were only 2 girls in the group and about 7 or 8 guys. Annabella wasn’t setting us up for an orgy; she was shooting for a gang bang.
As the second half of the crew drove off to meet us at the apartment, it was Anabella, our friend Stacy, Conrad, Harold and myself who walked down through the Bronx that evening to Washington Heights; the girls stripping down to their panties and screaming the whole way. Crowds were forming around them as they urinated down city steps and fingered each other. It wasn’t long before they were totally naked and walking past the 50th precinct. Harold and I were in a total panic, but the cops just smiled and waved.
When we got to Stacy’s place we were stopped by an off-duty Bx7 line. “HEY YOU GUYS, COME HERE, I WANNA TAKE A PICTURE” the driver shouted. He looked as though he’d had a few to drink himself. He invited us on the bus and quickly explained that he had a camera somewhere and that we’d have to wait for it. In the meantime he offered to drive us around.
This was good enough for the rest of the crew, who hopped into the back, got naked, and began to fuck, but Harold was skeptical – for one thing, we didn’t need to go anywhere, we were already at our apartment, and for another, where was this guy’s camera?
Finally, after the fifth or sixth loop around the block, Harold noticed the driver starting to slip out of his pants. He grabbed us by the hair shouting “THIS IS OUR STOP” and flipped the door switch out of the driver’s hand. As we bolted out into the street, the driver came to a halt and stood at the side of the road glaring at us. For the rest of the evening, each time I’d walk to the bodega to get more beer, he’d be right there in his bus demanding I come over to take care of some “unfinished business.”
Back in the apartment, everyone who’d been admiring Annabella all evening hopped on her like a 25-cent grocery store ride with me in the corner getting drunk. I got into the fray for a little while and even tried shit with Stacy, but it just wasn’t the same. Seven guys to two girls just isn’t right.
Other guys in the room sensed this too and asked if I was really down with them balling my girl. The response every time would be one which, just a week before, I’d been pretty fond of: “a girl like this you can’t control, she’s like the wind.”
As the evening wound down I found myself sitting with a couple of the benchwarmers downing the rest of the 40s. The conversation between them went as follows:
“I think everyone in here thinks you’re gay.”My sole contribution:
“Nuh-uh, everyone in here thinks YOU’RE gay.”
“You’re both gay, now shut up so I can get some sleep!”The next morning insecurities were still riding high. The first thing I saw was Annabella in the middle of a mass of naked bodies vaguely resembling the pantheon. I had a Clash sort of “should-I-stay-or-should-I-go” moment and eventually decided that she was happy and that was good enough for me. She was shipping out to another festival that night though and I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to say goodbye. I grabbed every coin in the room and flipped them for an answer. Each concluded that I should go, but I didn’t like that answer. I sat on the corner of the bed with my pants and shoes on for a minute when out of nowhere, Annabella throws everyone to the floor and tackles me. “What are you doing,” she says, “jealousy isn’t a good look for you.”
We spent the rest of the day together in the apartment fucking – she’d apparently only been with really lazy hippie lovers and needed a good old fashioned Jersey railing to spice up her life – when she started spouting stuff about love. Not the hippie sort of “I love everybody” routine either, but things like “I know saying you’re the love of my life is clichéd, but you make me LOVE my life and I love you more than anything.” Shit was starting to smell of monogamy, and since we really didn’t have anything else in common, that was all she’d talk about. Every other sentence was about how she could see us together for ever and she would die for me. Every sentence besides that was about the moon being in Aquarius and the spirits mingling with the goddess for some kind of celestial kegger. Needless to say, I was getting a headache.
I took her to a Harlem pickup game and she couldn’t grasp it. She’d honestly never seen basketball before. She told me that these “natives” with their “ritualistic chakra cleansings” were just what she needed to “ease her spirit” before it was forcibly “removed from her body” by the “evil force.” I looked down at my hand and caught that it was tightly wound in a fist. I’d never been this frustrated with anyone before.
“Do you ever listen to yourself speak, or do you just black whenever your lips start flapping?!” I demanded.
She just looked at me and smiled. “I know, I know, I’d be thinking the same thing if someone started spouting this bullshit at me. I’m surprised you’ve even put up with it for so long.”
So needless to say, I’m through with hippie chicks. Somebody get me a nice businesswoman in pants suits.
--Ilan Moskowitz
Deadbeats and Deloreans
Michael J. Fox's Bad Day
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