|
|
|
Genghis Cohen
Wednesday, June 27 2001
During my lunch break I freshened up the brown paint on the front awning of my condo after calling a couple "condo professionals" (real estate women) who had sent me a flyer in the mail.
In the afternoon I gave my boss notice that I would be moving to New York City in July. I didn't think there was anything odd about doing this via AOL Instant Messenger, since I use it for nearly all my workplace communication. But he did, comparing it to the time some guy told him he "had to go" and then never returned. I didn't really see what I was doing as giving notice, since I said that I'd be willing to work in the New York office. But perhaps I was being somewhat presumptuous to imagine I was important enough to be given such workplace flexibility. By the way, this was the first time I have ever given notice about a job. The two other companies I've worked for have either gone bankrupt, or fired me and then gone bankrupt.
The two real estate agents who arrived at my door this evening were dynamic, though ever so slightly trashy, white women, one with a hint of a mediterrannean accent and the other whose name was Jesika (spelled with one "s"). I showed them the place and suggested a price of $305,000. They told me I'd have a much easier time selling it at $299,000, so I said sure, whatever.
At around sunset I was coming home from Smart & Final with a half gallon of cheap vodka and a can of baby ears of corn and I saw my housemate John and his brother Joe returning from their trip to Yosemite.
Did they ever have a story to tell! They'd been in Yosemite exactly one night when a bear came through their camp. Since they're both deathly afraid of bears, they freaked out and left, driving down Death Valley and ultimately reaching the sparkly city of Las Vegas.
To make a long story short, they stayed a few nights in Vegas and got into something of a "roll" playing craps. The key to success, they found, was playing tables against older people in loud tourist clothes. Such people make statistically less-useful bets and can often be defeated by making certain kinds of non-stupid bets. Consequently, John and Joe left Nevada $2500 richer than they'd come.
Later in the evening, John, Joe and I drove into Hollywood to a restaurant/nightclub called Genghis Cohen. For most of the ride there, John and Joe kept up a continual banter in their faux-Altoona dialect.
"Ya say ya fked her but ya don't even know how ta fuck, ya ignernt hole!"
"Can't sell ya any gas, I'm doin' my bks!"
"Ya fked my sister and yer so ignernt ya didn't even call her da next day, ya ignernt hole!"
"I scked his cock, but I did't swallow any a his spoogie, wht are you ignernt?"
Another subject of discussion was a supposed Hootie and the Blowfish song called "There Ain't No Niggers Here," which would go something like this:
You're the icing on the donut, the sugar in the tea
The curly in the pubic hair
It don't mean a thing to me
Cuz once you open up now, you sing and we all hear
Tad-dunk chunk! (Three note heavy-but-wholesome guitar riff and dramatic pause)
There ain't no niggers here.
I don't know who actually came up with this gem, and before you write me to tell me, duh, I already know, it has the n-word in it. That doesn't mean it's not funny.
Next John and Joe spent a considerable time comparing notes on the various sadistic teachers they had back in high school.
Regarding tonight's destination, Joe said, "God I hope there are women with low self-esteem there."
The reason we were going to Genghis Cohen tonight was to see a performance by a singer-songwriter friend of Joe's medical school crowd. When we got to the club, the dining room looked nearly empty, but upon opening the door we found lots of people in the section that had a bar and a cozy little auditorium but no windows. A gentleman with a very earnest expression on his face was strumming away on an acoustic guitar and singing.
We immediately ordered up some beers and started checking out the ladies, of which there was an unexpected bounty. I guess the chicks dig this singer songwriter crap.
While we milled around in front of the bar waiting for the performance of the singer/songwriter we'd come to see, John mostly found himself talking to one of Joe's female med school friends, mostly, I suppose, because she had big tits. She also had a lot of freckles, which sort of worked with her look.
When the guy we'd come to see started playing, we did the right thing and went into the small auditorium to listen. I don't know why I'm using the word auditorium; it was much more like a little medieval chapel, complete with pews seating about forty people.
The only value to sitting and listening to this music was the fun little observations John, Joe and I made about the performance. I mean, this stuff was pretty hard to take. Folksy but unintelligible earnestness delivered with the practiced wholesomeness of rear-of-the-mouth vocalizations set to the sound of rapid virtuosic guitar plinking and strumming, little of which was melodic or catchy. I told John at one point, "The main reason I wouldn't want to hit on one of these girls is that I'd have to talk about how good this guy's music is."
The big breasted freckly girl had been scared of my quiet boredom earlier, but now that the Adderall and beer were kicking in, I was all bubbly and outgoing. This did not go unnoticed and now she told John, "I like his energy." The acoustic performance was a good environment for conspiratorial whispers, and the freckly girl and I took the opportunity to make private fun of the antics of the sound man, who kept coming out of his office to stand in the aisle, stooped over with his hands on his knees as if he was getting into position for the reception of anal sex.
After the show, we made the obligatory congratulatory noises to the performer, and then praised him conversationally for his virtuosity (even though his music had been annoying). Then we all walked a couple blocks south down Fairfax to a genuine Hollywood dive bar, complete with necking lesbians. By now Joe was hitting on a not-especially attractive young woman. She was interested but their romantic needs weren't compatible. While Joe would have been happy to take her behind a dumpster in the alley and bang one out, she was more of a long romantic walk on the beach kind of girl.
Though all three of us guys had been considering the sexual potential of the big breasted freckly girl, in the end John figured she was probably more trouble than she was worth, so we dropped her off in Westwood on the way back to West LA.
For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?010627 feedback
previous | next |
