Stranger than fiction and other cliches

One of the reasons that I've stopped writing fiction and started nattering on about my actual life is that so much weird shit keeps happening to me. It seems a shame to waste all that effort actually making stuff up when I can just report on the real events and get a laugh out of it. So I'm lazy. What do you want from me?



Friday night was so weird, however, that it's taken me four days to process it enough to turn it into an actual entry. And I'm still not at all confident that I'll do the story justice. But anyway, here goes.



Friday night, my cousin Rolfe, my friend Meredith and I decided to go see the Dresden Dolls. The Dresden Dolls are my favorite band in the whole wide world. They call themselves "Brechtian Punk Cabaret", they're sexy and twisted, and they're from Boston. I mean, really. What I am supposed to do? Clearly, I'll have to have a million of Amanda Palmer's babies.



In the hopes of inspiring Amanda Palmer to allow me to have her babies, or, okay, just because I'm an attention whore, I decided to wear almost no shirt at all to the show. Specifically, I wore this bustier thingie that put the twins on full display. So keep that in mind, before you go shaking your head at anyone's behavior subsequent; really, I asked for it.



Rolfe drove us to the show in his car. (Excuse me: In his Camaro. How much do I love that my cousin makes a hundred thousand dollars a year more than I do, and went out and bought himself a Camaro as soon as he graduated from Law School? It's a really nice Camaro, but still. You can take the boy out of Illinois, etc.)



When we got there, the first thing we saw was my friend Rod loitering around outside looking simultaneously shifty and elated.



"Look, there's Rod," Meredith said, just as he disappeared into the Paradise Lounge. "He looks weird."



"He always looks weird."



"But he looks ... happy."



"Really? Okay, that is weird."



When we got our tickets and retired to the Lounge to wait for our band to come on, we found out why. Rod was sitting at a table in the middle of the Paradise Lounge with our other friend Matt and a four foot tall African-American midget in a red patent leather cowboy hat and matching boots.



We of course took the table right next to them.



The dwarf got up and ambled over -- and I mean, ambled. As he was shortly to explain, he was from Texas, and walked with the appropriate swagger.



"I'm Tiny the Terrible," he said, extending a hand and staring right at my chest, "And you are a fine looking woman."



"Oh, er, thanks," I said. "It's, um, nice to meet you."



He bit his fist and stared some more. "Mmm, mmm, MMM. I hope you don't mind me saying this, but those are some lovely, lovely boobs."



"Oh, ha ha. No, um, that's--"



"I mean, really lovely. In fact, you're pretty good looking altogether. Are you in the movie?"



The movie. Rod's movie. I flashed back to six months ago, when Rod showed me his script and I gave him the following editorial advice, "It's really good, Rod, but you're never going to find a four-foot-tall midget who can ride a motorcycle."



I looked at Rod and mouthed the word, "Motorcycle?"



He pounded the table, tears in his eyes. "HE HAS HIS OWN!"



Tiny took my hand. "You should be in the movie. You're almost as good looking as me. I mean it! You have nice eyes, you have nice lips. Your nose is okay. You're gonna have to let that hair down, though, to cover up those ears."



I looked desperately at Rolfe, who appeared transfixed.



"Let me ask you this," crooned Tiny. "How old are you?"



"28."



"28. And you ain't married?"



I shook my head.



"But you have kids."



I shook my head again.



Tiny looked horrified. "28 and you ain't got no kids? Man oh man oh man. If you were my woman, I'd have knocked you up five times already."



"HE HAS SIX KIDS" Rod said, his voice strangled with mirth.



I extracted my hand from Tiny's. "Oh, gee whiz. Thanks. But I'm all set. With the kids."



Tiny shook his head in disbelief. "28 and no kids." He whistled and climbed back up on his bar stool. "I don't believe it."



I'm wondering if Tiny has been talking to my mother.