Sinister: everybody get slutty

[mike windisch]

happy monday all,

many pleasant (and a few decadantly pleasurable) experiences occurred to me 
this past weekend. If you're afraid of fun or leery of the self-absorbed 
pompous ass that comprises a significant portion of windisch's persona, 
steer clear of this here weekend rebriefing.

Foremost in b&s related appeal regards the fortunate fact that I've found my 
very own girls who've "got a house that's like a caravan" a' la string bean 
jean. And, truth be told, everytime we all go round it is like a holiday 
(significantly more bacchanalian than say groundhog day, president's day, 
and several of the lesser Amish festivals, but nothing on par with cinqo d' 
mayo, fourth of july or new year's eve.)

Waking up at 190 Angell saturday morning nestled in the warm arms of 
spritely sweet and sleeping mari fujiuchi gave me a chance to reflect on the 
fun we had friday night whilst partaking in a humorously whiskey-inspired 
swing dance to the ripping blues sounds of my friend's dad's band.

Elsewhere in the club, my swarthy five point nine* friends wooed, whooped 
and grab-assed (according to their individual charm and/or lack of tact) the 
other lovlies from the Angell caravan.  mari and myself engaged in a 
marathon smooch from the what-seemed-secluded-enough-at-the-time bench 
seating that flanked that dancefloor. Little were we aware that our little 
make-out hideout was in all actuality a center-stage spectacle as visible to 
the band as it was the other patrons of the bar and all of our friends. 
Whoops. Good thing it was late and everyone was sauced (and presumably 
self-absorbed with their own romances or boozey commiserations)or we 
probably would have made somebody jealous with the fun we were having.

*five point nine is a rhode island social phenomenon consisting of a lunatic 
sect of skateboarders, copious quantities of booze, and non-stop shenanigans 
that can best be described as 
stunt-ridden-improvizational-comedy-cum-unpretensious-performance art*

Saturday afternoon in the secret theatre I got dirty with volunteerism while 
helping my hometown artfag crew winterize their studio-performance-speakeasy 
space. Prior to sealing the windows on a 40 foot square skylight 10 cubits 
above the floor, I was asked to use my lanky sprawl to secure a ridiculously 
huge sheet of plastic wrap from blowing away under the hot breath of the 
heater. What ribald talk and freaky fantasies we spun imagining the number 
of jelly-filled danishes (and non-sinisters alike) we could wrap up in that 
big perverted piece of plastic wrap. Oh the innuendo, the double entendre 
and the excessive use of the word schupt that went down. any righteous 
person would have blushed so heavily that they burst into flames.

Afterwards, in new london media mogul dickie marteen's pad we listened to 
the test copy of the indy-rock compiliation that was pulled together from 
bands that played the temporary autonomous zone before it was defunct. 
(would it be correct to say while it was funct?) I had trouble coming up 
with a tactfull way to say that most of the songs sucked, so I said nothing 
and talked local color with some guy i just met.

?? has anyone else come across this sort of situation where you really want 
to support the industry of your friends but for the love of god cannot seem 
to find anything appealing in the product ??

I'd like to wrap up this criminally indulgent post by thanking the lass who 
squeeled to miss crush that the she had the hots for me and to implore all 
those who refuse to dance that they cannot conceive of the fun to be had 
while making a spectacular ass of yourself.

keeping the sin in sinister

mike windisch
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