Do U Want 2 Play w/Me?
You’re back! And, looking good! The last time we met, you were playing hard-to-get. Now, here you are — rockin’ hard in this funky groove; ready to grind in that Italian imported chiffon mini. I heard you went to the wedding and stole the show, light on your feet, all eyes on you doing the splits again and again. Glad to hear it.
We never should have parted ways, you and I. When two are in love the way we were there must be a better way to say good-bye.
I remember when we first met: St. Mark’s Place in the gritty city. It was 1988.
You and your friends piled high on the folding tables up and down the East Village streets; books, and backgammon, dirty clothes and old hats. Multiple copies of you home-brewed with Magic Marker playlists stacked a mile high amidst incense, wine, and candles. It was such a freaky scene.
I stepped into a wrecka stow and found you on vinyl. Score. The shopkeep spun the wax for a test drive releasing raspy funk chords across the store, sound waves stretched my jugular across the great divide, taking me for a ride. There was no turning back. Once you go Black vinyl…there’s no denial.
Later that night, I lay dreaming of you in my SRO at The Olcott on 72nd, 10,000 feet from the Dakota (requiste in pace). Around midnight, I heard two cats going at it in the alley below.
Not thugs, feline.
She was giving him a piece of her mind, his barbed tongue held on for dear life. Their treacherous screams blended into the sounds of the city amidst sirens, alarms, and laughter off the walls. He pulled, she pushed. Down and up and down and up. Her screams sent chills down my spine bringing sleep to the surface. I was teased awake by the blinking blue strobe light of a dual cassette boombox. I did the Detroit crawl in a room with no light, placing my ear close to the perforated speakers with zero points-on-center, and then, in a quarter-flash adjusted the EQ to realize: There were no cats.
I pushed open the window and leaned out, looking down 17 floors. The alley was empty. Nothing but bags of garbage, a mattress, and dumpster.
But no cats.
It was just my imagination, running away with me.
Then, I heard it again. The sound of two cats fracking. But not from out there. Squeals came from the boombox, behind the speakers, within the electronic guts of the machine; a haunting, stretching, peeling type of sound — two spooky electric guitars traveling against each other in opposite directions — in one ear, out the other.
And now here you are. Refreshed and updated to a new version 2.0. I should’ve seen you coming.
Now, why don’t you come up and see me sometime? I could do your body good. I’ve got a redwood hot tub and a thousand jets, a cauldron if you will, boiling deep for tough meat. When you’re raw, I’m ready to play ball.
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(Inspired by track No. 4, The Gold Standard from Art Official Age by Prince)
Next: What it is
Words by -j.2u
Images by j.zen
Published by First F15teen
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