020124
January 24, 2002
tonight was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time. What’s scary about that, is that it was really nothing special. It was refreshing just to get outside of my comfort zone even if it was only for a lil’ while. So what did I do that was so special? I went to see Emily, a girl I work with, she sings classic Jazz tunes.
Her main influence is Ella Fitzgerald. She is beautiful. Ella and her. She put a spell on me. I’ve even asked myself if this girl was literally putting some type of spell on me. Some supernatural sex hex or maybe the cajun ‘gris-gris.’ Emily. Scary.
I sat down with her and this classy ol’ fella’ named Eddie Ri-something. We made conversation, talked about Mardi Gras and some random Jazz- bullshit. I have the feeling that during this exchange, it was obvious as hell to all with eyes that I dug this chick. I mean, after being lonely for so long it really ain’t that hard to tell when I, the virgin, dig a chick. Eye contact is the conversation that needs no words. I pay way more attention to body language, then words. Especially with strangers.
Rasheed Wallace and Boomshae Boomshae of the Portland Trailblazers were there, also Ken Blackman the black local TV news man was there. He was with some middle-aged blonde white woman, which I found humorous. Also I met a semi-handicapped guy named Todd, he seemed like the type of fella’ who is doing a lot more then he lets on, for better or worse. We were shooting the shit, and he could’ve swore Emily and I were brother and sister or boyfriend/girlfriend or something. He paid for one of my drinks and encouraged me to 'go for it!'
Before the whole Brasserie Montmartre thing (or whatever the hell that place is called), I went down to Kelly’s Pub to eat. It just so happened it was hip-hop night. That was cool but the cook gave me this wimpy-ass chicken burger, so I sent it back. Whatever…I still had a good time there.
Emily though, she’s scary. A beautiful woman. Not that she’s a perfect ten, she just has that shine. When she looks me in the eye I see steady deep waters. You know how with some people, you just see deeper into their eyes than normal. It’s almost like they're letting you see them naked. In Emily’s eyes everything stands still. Damn, I got goose-tits just thinking about it.
Pianos are amazing instruments. Seated at the grand piano, picture a stylish old man with thick black rimmed glasses; sporting a grey, rat pack-ish, semi-pimp suit, with a chunky gold pinky ring and a two inch ash curling like a pinkie fingernail from the end of the smoldering cigarette in his left hand. Next to that, now picture a mysteriously beautiful, thick bodied, curly haired brunette. Smokey blue stage light makes her seem to glow as the shadows of her curly locks fall across her face. The room seems like its holding its breath as Emily is belting out old Ella Fitz tunes. Singing with a rag time swagger about love and all that type of stuff.
Mesmerized, here I sit, a lonely stiff; three quarters drunk off my ass, eyes glazed, just exhaling calmly like drunks do and taking it all in. She put a spell on me. I remember I was so drunk that by the time she finished her set and made her way to my table, I could hardly slur my speech right.
When I am completely sober, most people still have a hard time tracking with me due to the Southern Louisiana accent; when I’m sauced, forget about it. So being fully aware, and overly self-conscious, of my poisoned state, I opted to avoid total destruction by way of drunken desperation and cut our conversation short before I said something that I couldn't take back. I found myself hardly walking home in the pouring pissing down rain. Drunk without a care in this cold wet world and singing Ella Fitz songs the whole way to my apartment.
Enough.
A living masterpiece painting, Hmm. Ramsey Lewis “Down to Earth” is the frame. Her 'Deep Eyes' are the portrait…
(this was written a long time ago on January 24th, 2002)
