Not to fret, friends. This isn't a post about everyone's favorite pig-faced governor, this is just about a girl trying to walk in some heels after a night of hcd.
The week/month of concerts/dance parties began on Wednesday night when my bestie, PO and I ventured to see Ra Ra Riot at the Turner Hall. The sound isn't the greatest there, but it's so super old and it's filled with pictures of old Germans, so I kind of HAVE to like it.
Anys. We get there fashionably late, because we're super-fashionable/hot messes all of the time. The first opening band was okay. Nothing too super-special. Just kind of folk-rocky. I see a co-worker who states he may be in attendance on Mad Planet Friday for another co-worker's bday. PO states that one of her co-workers will also be in attendance. Quickly, what was supposed to be a weekend of utter laziness and not going out has turned into a weekend of the yuge.
The concert is not crowded at all and the people watching/judging is in full force.
Hipsters are a tiny, tiny breed.
Our attentions quickly turn to the group of three that is directly ahead of us.
Upon first look we thought it was just a good-time gay with his two lady friends, which made me miss my ventures with J&P.
But the more I eavesdropped, the more I got the feeling that this guy was a het. When one's gaydar is off I always ask myself WWJ/PS?
Would would James/Peter say? And the more I watched, I could hear their running commentary in my head and I was convinced that he was, indeed, a het.
I seemed to have figure this out just in time, as Blondie was ALL OVER his mother-loving self. It was clear to both PO and I that while he was possibly into Blondie, he seemed to have a better connection with Brunette. And for a while, every time Blondie would be all sexy and dancey up on him, he would politely dance out of it and include Brunette, which I thought was nice.
Unfortunately more Pabst was involved and following scene occurred at least three times:
Blondie all swervey and dancey and kissy on him.
He would kiss her back, dance out of it and side up to Brunette.
Rinse and repeat.
Rinse and repeat.
On the one hand, I felt sorry for Brunette because I think she probably did like Plaidy McCurly Hair (he looked kind of like the male teacher on Glee), and I think he liked her. It was just that Blondie was way more aggressive in her drunkenness, and what's the guy going to do? Outrightly refuse the hot blonde who is all over him when his true feelings are for the still-cute-but-not-hot Brunette who isn't all over him whilst drunk?
A dude's got needs.
I think they'll work it out in the end.
It should be noted that the above is all conjecture based on eavesdropping and reading body language.
I never said I wasn't judgmental.
Plaidy McCurly Hair left to get more Pabst (of course!) and to take a breather from his reign as Mayor of Makeout City, and a NEW group of three moved to the head of the line.
This time, a dude with two blondes. Luckily for my sanity, this group had a much more platonic feel rather than a thwarted-crush-stealer feel, but still very VERY flirty.
Who knew hipster rock shows were the breeding grounds for threesomes?
The show itself was a good, dancey time.
Sideboard: I don't think I've used the made-up word "dancey" so often. But yet.
It just feels so right.
Another side note:
What if I, homeless Barbie, created a fashion blog?
You too can look homeless, even at work! I actually think it could work.
So don't steal it.
Friday, I'm in love.
Not literally, but there was a super foxy, beardy guy at Mad Planet in a red and blue plaid shirt who was all awkwardly dancing. Adorbs.
Bonus? PO and I both agreed on his foxiness. This happens rarely.
Sadly, he found some tiny little black-haired lady to dance all sexy with.
Boo-hiss on mahnjays.
Other than that, Mad Planet was a ridick good time.
I had a stranger tell me they really liked my hair in the ladies bathroom.
I had a crazy-person-of-friend tell me I was gorgeous twice (I think because she forgot the first time?)
I had another person tell me they liked my shoes (tortuous devices that they are).
They played good music, I created a new non-dance called the Angry Feminist:
Stand with arms crossed, looking mad, eyes slightly slit, occasionally shaking your head back and forth. If outside, smoke a cigarette.
This works exceptionally well if they're playing "Smack My Bitch Up," fyi.
To quote EC:
My dogs be barkin'.
Like a genius/boss, it seemed like a wise/fashionably viable thing to wear heels.
They are my COMFY heels, you know.
By the end of the night I had created not only my new wicked dance move, the Angry Feminist, but also a new walk, The Hobo.
Not only am I Jj Walker-Burch, I'm Jj Hobo-Walker-Burch.
And since it's cold/rainy/snowy there was no way I could have removed the tools of torture after leaving the bar. And so I hobbled/shuffled, like an ancient Japanese woman with bound feet, around pond-sized puddles, muddy lawns and cracks in the sidewalk.
And I KNOW heels are bad for you.
I KNOW that I shouldn't wear them.
Lawd knows I have enough height that I don't HAVE to wear them.
But they're so cute.
And I really love how tall they make me.
If they made flats half as cute as heels, this wouldn't be an issue.
And let's be real.
It's not like I buy them.
Prizes for work events, given to me by other drag-queen-sized-feet-friends, or I DID buy them but it was like 15 years ago.
Instead, I will put my effort into procuring a virtual rainbow of Chuck Taylors Low-Top Allstars.
Because you can wear those with anything.