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rmToday was a day that went exactly as planned except not at all.
The train was a mix of screaming racist crazywomen talking to themselves about Angelina Jolie and Sharon Stone while mariachi bands jostled for position. The Bastille Day thing was crowded and cramped beyond all (dance floor? what dance floor?) although I can't say enough good things about Michael Aranella & His Dreamland Orchestra.
We escaped for awhile to another nearby street fair where we ate spectacular streak frittes outside and then went back for some more of that fabulous music.
Which is where things went from sort of ridiculous to WHUT?!?
I'm peripherally aware of a dude sitting near where we are standing. He seems sane and not homeless, but he's still in a dirty t-shirt and shorts and it just unkempt and smug about it. I don't think of it beyond taking in the scene -- there's Aranella and his winking charm, the band, two brave couples dancing, lots of kids, scary Bacardi girls, entitled Brooklynites who think "excuse me" means "I'm going to intentionally walk right into you now eventhough I could theoretically swerve and not do so" etc etc.
And then I can feel someone looking at us.
It's Mr. Unkempt.
His gaze wanders over me ever so briefly. I'm in boy clothes, covered up, not of interest, and then he gets to Kali. His eyes slide up down and up again. And then he asks her if she dances.
"Oh, no!" she says with a laugh.
He frowns and grudingly turns to me. "Do you know how to dance?" he asks.
"This isn't really my era," I say.
"Well, can you count to four?"
Such questions are never, ever a good sign.
"Not today," I say with a smile and lean over to Kali to whisper "we are not the lesbians you're looking for," because really, dude? Are you serious? I've never seen a guy ask two different women to dance with such contempt before in my life.
And then he fucking reaches for Kali, like it's time to see if the meat is tender or something.
"Hey!" I say and reflexivingput my hand on his chest so that doesn't happen. Which is fucking stupid, because if you don't want the creepy guy touching you, you also don't really want to be touching the creepy guy, right? "She said no."
"But she can dance!"
"She can also be a lot meaner than me. Step off."
Luckily, I like to think it was the presence of disapproving people with babies, he slunk back into his chair, but he was still sort of salivating and our feet hurt so we bagged the whole thing to take another unbelieveably fucked up train ride back into Manhattan and look things up for fics in travel guides. At which point I completely cracked Kali up by sniping at her to just use the damn index when she was fishing for the table of contents.
Anyway. Those of you who were sad to miss today's thing? You missed NOTHING other than some cracktastic weirdness and small children eating mussels and harassing dogs.
The train was a mix of screaming racist crazywomen talking to themselves about Angelina Jolie and Sharon Stone while mariachi bands jostled for position. The Bastille Day thing was crowded and cramped beyond all (dance floor? what dance floor?) although I can't say enough good things about Michael Aranella & His Dreamland Orchestra.
We escaped for awhile to another nearby street fair where we ate spectacular streak frittes outside and then went back for some more of that fabulous music.
Which is where things went from sort of ridiculous to WHUT?!?
I'm peripherally aware of a dude sitting near where we are standing. He seems sane and not homeless, but he's still in a dirty t-shirt and shorts and it just unkempt and smug about it. I don't think of it beyond taking in the scene -- there's Aranella and his winking charm, the band, two brave couples dancing, lots of kids, scary Bacardi girls, entitled Brooklynites who think "excuse me" means "I'm going to intentionally walk right into you now eventhough I could theoretically swerve and not do so" etc etc.
And then I can feel someone looking at us.
It's Mr. Unkempt.
His gaze wanders over me ever so briefly. I'm in boy clothes, covered up, not of interest, and then he gets to Kali. His eyes slide up down and up again. And then he asks her if she dances.
"Oh, no!" she says with a laugh.
He frowns and grudingly turns to me. "Do you know how to dance?" he asks.
"This isn't really my era," I say.
"Well, can you count to four?"
Such questions are never, ever a good sign.
"Not today," I say with a smile and lean over to Kali to whisper "we are not the lesbians you're looking for," because really, dude? Are you serious? I've never seen a guy ask two different women to dance with such contempt before in my life.
And then he fucking reaches for Kali, like it's time to see if the meat is tender or something.
"Hey!" I say and reflexivingput my hand on his chest so that doesn't happen. Which is fucking stupid, because if you don't want the creepy guy touching you, you also don't really want to be touching the creepy guy, right? "She said no."
"But she can dance!"
"She can also be a lot meaner than me. Step off."
Luckily, I like to think it was the presence of disapproving people with babies, he slunk back into his chair, but he was still sort of salivating and our feet hurt so we bagged the whole thing to take another unbelieveably fucked up train ride back into Manhattan and look things up for fics in travel guides. At which point I completely cracked Kali up by sniping at her to just use the damn index when she was fishing for the table of contents.
Anyway. Those of you who were sad to miss today's thing? You missed NOTHING other than some cracktastic weirdness and small children eating mussels and harassing dogs.
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no subject
Date: 2008-07-15 07:28 pm (UTC)This reminds me of a night at a SCAdian party in Philly, many many moons ago, where a friend and I were going to crash at the party house for the night. A fellow had been unsuccessfully pursuing my friend all evening, and as people were starting to find places to bed down, he had the audacity to take me (hello, second choice, you don't actually even need an attempt at a seduction, do you?) by the hand and start to pull me towards his particular cot.
The look of "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I shot him was enough for him to release me as if my touch had burnt him.
no subject
Date: 2008-07-15 07:55 pm (UTC)