Or “Angie’s Eye”
UK Grief’s Non-Record Release Party was held at Chicago reclusive author (and keyboardist) Clive Javanski’s new Logan Square Apartment. Clive still had his place near Quencher’s Saloon in Bucktown, but purchased this as some kind of investment.
“A few years ago a strung-out coke whore was probably giving a two-dollar blow job in this exact spot,” Clive said. “But now we have Diamond-Eyes David Catzman in her place, sipping a Cuba Libre and wearing ruby red boots.”
I was never really sure who Catzman knew in our group, but he always showed up for a party. Catzman is what Aidan calls “a bi-guy,” which might explain why he has a gorgeous girlfriend with him yet grabs my ass in the kitchen.
Catzman was here along with many other assholes to celebrate what would have been a new release from the Bucktown-based UK Grief (myself, Clive, Sasha, Aidan, Franz). There is no record yet. But there’s still a party.
I looked around the room and saw Angela, an ex-girlfriend of mine who always wore construction boots on her tiny feet and looked damn good doing so. Her kisses tasted like undiscovered fruit. When she got drunk one of her eyes got smaller. How cute. It usually led to her hand in my pants, or mine in hers.
“Everyone’s at this fucking thing,” Aidan said. “The entire city’s walking weird is here.”
Band friend Mosquito came. He earned that nickname because someone said he “looked like an insect.” Also here was Devin, who said he worked at Violet Hour in Wicker Park and was starting a new Internet cooking/eating and restaurant show called “Food Assholes.”
I walked over to Clive, who in between bong hits was telling some DePaul girls how we were originally going to name the band Weird Asian Girls. None of us were girls (before Sasha joined), or Asian. But damn were we weird.
I walked the room. Someone called me an “IRA looking asshole.”
Things I overheard:
“The last tire fire I started, in unincorporated Indiana, you could see that motherballer from space.”
“At the last party this hillbilly enchantress turned Aidan into an exhaust pipe.”
I went looking for Sasha, because it’s times like these we usually have sex. But I found Angela instead, in the kitchen. She wore a black skirt and I got to see my favorite freckle of all time – the one just a few inches above her right knee on otherwise unblemished legs.
Angela was wearing an old Nitzer Ebb tee and kissed me on the cheek. I was going to ask what she was doing there but I decided not too. I thought about writing a song about her, called “Angie’s Eye.” We talked, we drank. Her eye got smaller. Someone’s hand was going somewhere. Hers or mine, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.