Dear Future Leslee,
Sometimes I let people invite me to things, and then I go to those things with no idea what it is I’m doing or why. Someone will just string a bunch of words together in the form of a question and I’ll be like “Sure! Sounds like plan” and it’s always a fail whale of awkward times but I haven’t learned my lesson yet and I don’t plan to any time soon.
So anyway, last Tuesday my awesome Co-Clerk Beckster was all like: “Leslee! You should totally come see Johny Vegas on Wednesday!” and I, having no idea what Johny Vegas was or what seeing him would entail (surprise genitalia? maybe) agreed whole-heartedly. Then again, I’m pretty sure Beckster could invite me to just about anything and I’d go along with it.
“Hey, Leslee! You should totally come to the Beat Up Leslee club this Friday!”
“I don’t know…”
“Do it! You’re Leslee, so there isn’t even any cover charge.”
“Hot diggity! I’m in.”
Sure, Beckster and I have never actually had that conversation, but we probably will one day and at least now we won’t have to deal with any nasty surprises.
Wednesday rolls around and Beckster comes and picks me up and she’s late, and I’m all like “Oh no! Are we going to miss JC Penny?!” and she’s all like “You mean Johny Vegas” and I’m all like “Sure, whatever”. Turns out Johny Vegas is a lounge singer at Maxwells’ down on Elgin street. Beckster and her family (who are basically the Carpenters, I think) used to perform with Johny Vegas, so when we show up I got to meet her dad and his wife and her sister and her sister’s husband and her cousin.
It was basically like every family reunion I have ever been to only with fewer children. And fist-fights.
Hilarious side note: several people at the table had read my blog and totally knew me from it, which was at once weird and totally satisfying. That being said, most of the occupants at the table were juuussttt boozed enough to be nice about anything. Pretty sure I could write a blog about different types of sand and the Carpenters’ would’ve complemented me on it.
At some point in the night, Beckster tells me two very important things: Maxwells is a cougar bar (which will be important for me to know in thirty years) and we’ve come on “Weirdo Wednesday”. How right she was.
Johny Vegas (who is rumoured to occasionally perform in tuxes covered entirely in sequins, although I can’t prove it) and his band we’re pretty good, although the youngest guy in it was over fifty and the keyboardist was giving me the fucking evil eye all night. Beckster pointed out that I was standing in front of the TV so he might have been giving the eye to the Filthy Russians, but either way it is unsettling to have an eighty year-old in a cummerbund glare malevolently at you for twenty minutes straight.
The highlight of the night was by far watching Beckter and the Carpenters perform onstage with Johny Vegas. You can’t go wrong with Twist and Shout, particularly when it features someone you work with and random family members of hers. Afterwards I was all like “I know celebrities!!” and Beckster was all like “Oh shucks” but secretly I think she knows she is Too Cool For School. And me, probably.
The low-light of the night was a woman who was also at the bar. I don’t know her name or her story, so really she might spend her day teaching blind orphan dolphins sign language and be totally beyond reproach. But the fact was that she was enough to make “Weirdo Wednesday” a moniker worth remembering.
Firstly, I have never seen a human being look so angry in a bar. I never once saw this woman stop frowning intently. Secondly, she was alone, and spent much of the night standing by herself in the corner, scowling. When she left the corner, she left it to dance, and while her feet and her head we’re into the beat, her arms and torso remained rigidly still. It was like highland dance mixed with head-banging mixed with the angriest woman ever.
And all of that, all of that would’ve been forgivable if she had just worn a bra. But no: Mama let her large, cow-like double-D’s swing all ’round that dance floor, her waist-high nipples acting as beacons in the night. It was like looking at a lava lamp, only the lava lamp wished you were dead and made you uncomfortable whenever it started to bounce at all.
And that was my night. Future Me, I hope you’ve finally stopped putting yourself into situations like this. There is only so many times you can turn down free drinks from someone’s singing, sixty-year-old father before you just give in and start drinking. I hope you’ve moved beyond that. I really do.
May you plan your events with forethought,