Picture the scene:
You’re at a small-ish music venue. You’re there to see a band you ran across twenty or so years ago. You saw their name on the bill, so you asked the guy you’ve been seeing to get tickets for a date night. It’s a Tuesday. The venue holds about 500 people, but the crowd that evening consists of approximately thirty.
The band arrives onstage. From the start, it is clear that they are unhappy with the turnout. The frontman lacks any kind of charisma. He repeatedly verbalizes his disappointment and his desperation to bring the energy up. His discomfort is absolutely apparent and equally uncomfortable to witness. The crowd dwindles, now there are twenty.
You tried standing closer to the stage, wanting to be supportive, but the neediness of the performer was so unsettling that you’ve retreated back to the shadows. You feel sorry for him and for yourself. You wonder if maybe it’s time to leave. Even the band that opened for them has gone.
And then they begin to play their most popular song, about halfway through the set. A handful (literally, five) of die-hard fans have been in their corner all along and are now very excited. A self-conscious hipster and his friend try not to dance. The rest of the crowd is nonplussed. The song reaches a climax as you tell yourself you’ll leave once you finish this beer.
And then…
Confetti cannon.
The saddest explosion of confetti you’ve ever seen floats from the ceiling. Onto twenty people, 75% of whom would prefer to be anywhere but here. Muted tones of blue and yellow cascading over a confused and irritable audience. I imagine the mood would be similar if you threw confetti at a funeral.
This was the spectacle witnessed by T and I on our last date. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. Or for so long. For about fifteen minutes, I couldn’t look at that depressing confetti on the floor without breaking down. About a minute and a half after the initial ejaculation, a tiny poof of about ten more pieces began to fall, seemingly of their own volition. I broke. Tears streamed, I could not breathe. No one else was laughing. Not a soul.
Except T, who was laughing at my laughing. Completely on my side. I called it funeral confetti and he broke down with me. I picked up a piece of it (in the most depressing shade I could find), borrowed the bartender’s pen, and drew a sad face on it. It lives in my wallet now. A constant reminder of saddest, funniest show I have ever been to.
We finished our beers and left confident that we had seen everything worth seeing. We went to the bar next door and hung out a while longer. Talking and laughing. Found a puppy to pet. His name was Harvey.
What an amazingly awful and wonderful night. T is great. He gets me. It feels good. I’m glad I get to share this memory with him, and I’m excited to make some more.
Fat and Slutty 