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epistle log 20enty 4our
endgame
residential to academic, past the darkroom, to luke and pete's house we go, sauntering, talking of theme music and strutting. over dana's and up the stairs to the porch, inside for a coke in a hi ball past that ohian card game. back to the porch where the mist of my breath mixes with pipe smoke over the chess board. where's my game at? i bury myself by the fifth move, make two stupid mistakes, and just miss a draw. the flightless bird charmer with no endgame beat me, and i walk from my first chess game in months in shame. after relinquishing my seat i enter, remember how much i hate the choking crowds of parties, and leave again. happy birthday brandon, you're pretty hammered. blake finds me, and we retrace our steps at a run to grab two amps, a mic and some cable. laboring back, blake gives me one of the best compliments i've heard in a while: "you know, you're a really good bassist." coming from a musician of his talent, it meant a lot. and his sincerity was both uncommon and genuine.
back inside i perch over the amps, moving knobs slightly to control balance and feedback, watching brandon decline until he slowly removed himself from the song, and was playing in a another house, at another party, while blake worked constantly to keep up with him, to keep him in his body, to keep him in key, in check. in the room fleeced women come and go, speaking of things they don't know. i feel out of uniform in my khakis and white dress shirt, and no one there knew who in the hell tortoise is, except that i look pretty funny in their white and blue ringer. blake and brandon play until brandon fades beyond hope, then blake is left in charge of the 8 people on the couch, looking at him like mtv, demanding their entertainment. he defiantly half-submits, some of the doze drunkenly.
perched there on the amps, i realize i hate parties, but stayed to the end of this one. i had a purpose. i had something to occupy me. i think that's why i hate pete's house on weekends: too many people doing nothing. drinking to kill the boredom, to give them something to do, to inspire some social interaction. the groups mill like static on a tv, watching each to see what each other is doing: watching each other do nothing.
i go over there, play chess, play cards, am the band bitch. i seek something purposive. maybe that's why i stick out, not because i don't meet the dress code. because i am the substance in the vacuum.
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