R
Rob Gordon
Guest
Original poster
(OOC: I figured I should add a little description of what's going on here. It's quite simple, and anyone is welcome to join. The setting is a creepy little gig bar a few blocks from Championship Vinyl, in Chicago. The place is ridiculously crowded, regardless of how ominously crappy the liveband is. They play some sort of experimental and fusionny jazz with keyboard samples and loops that sound like they're straight out of some 80s pinball machine game. For the occasion, red and blue spotlights are giving a bit of a retro vibe to the bar, and everyone is stepping on everyone else's toes and half-spilling their drinks whenever they take a swig. There are some tables scattered close to the bar, where I am sitting, staring down my pint like I want to delete myself from the universe. There you go.)
She was stunningly beautiful in her pearly white dress, and he felt like less than half a man in the confines of his endless stupor. She danced and swayed in such an exotic manner, it made it strongly hard to believe she was hearing the same horrid music he was now barely capable of processing, for fear that it would make him combust on the spot, only to wake up on the kind of planet where everyone is ten times dumber and more colourful than all the horrendously chuffed eccentrics gathered around the stage at this very moment.
Rob Gordon sighed, and, for no particular reason, dropped a nickel at the bottom of his pint of bitter, watching it lazily float down in such a manner that perfectly represented his own lack of enthusiasm for the downfall of each and every little function he had the glamorous impression his brain had once gloriously showcased. His eyes levelled with Dick's. He was standing a few meters off, staring in the kind of way only a dolt could, with an expression that said "I know I'm standing smack in the middle of my wheelhouse. I take you and everyone in town to some shit gig because all of a sudden, everyone is gonna have something to bitch about, especially Barry, and I can make myself invisible while you all cackle away at how stunningly unhip today's music is, compared to the glorious seventies that we all whack off dreaming about when no one else is looking." Yes, that's a long and troublesome philosophy to digest, and only three people in the room are currently aware of its existence. Barry, the above-mentioned Dick, and Rob Gordon, the man and the legend himself.
Defeat is too bittersweet a tune, and he clung to its hollow notes of melancholic despair with all the focus he could muster as the sax solos turned into ridiculous Club Med anthems, to everyone's apparently dazed and drunken enjoyment. He scratched his neck, gave his glass a little toss, nodded at the barman, and disappeared towards the loo, unable to look at her anymore. She clearly loved whatever piece of crap new "sub-genre" those clowns were pulling, and taking a leak was all he could do to cleanse his soul of the horrible, horrible letdown this appeared to be in his heart. If she didn't have anymore depth, then surely, he could not risk taking a chance.
After all, Laura pretended she loved Solomon Burke, and once she had uncovered the tragic lie, everything about the marriage had fallen apart.
And there he was, staring down the urinal, not comprehending what on earth his life was even about no more, let alone this farce of an evening down the pits of Nowhere Land listening to all the Waste Bins of the world going for the Live Aid type of mise en scène for the sake of filling a divebar full of wannabe hippies from space.
This very minute, he wanted to pass out. After two drinks. Hearing and feeling nothing would've been such a blessing.
Nevertheless, he did walk out of the men's room, with his head between his legs, and an awfully irritating headache. It sure did not block out the sounds, images, and absurdity of the mathematics of his life and what he always made of it. With one gaze for the exit, he stomped off, pushing several people along the way, gasping for air. He craved it with every single particle of his being. He had to breathe in the decay of Chicago's night-time breeze. Compared to this mess of a shitbox, he would be safe and sound in the middle of the street.
She was stunningly beautiful in her pearly white dress, and he felt like less than half a man in the confines of his endless stupor. She danced and swayed in such an exotic manner, it made it strongly hard to believe she was hearing the same horrid music he was now barely capable of processing, for fear that it would make him combust on the spot, only to wake up on the kind of planet where everyone is ten times dumber and more colourful than all the horrendously chuffed eccentrics gathered around the stage at this very moment.
Rob Gordon sighed, and, for no particular reason, dropped a nickel at the bottom of his pint of bitter, watching it lazily float down in such a manner that perfectly represented his own lack of enthusiasm for the downfall of each and every little function he had the glamorous impression his brain had once gloriously showcased. His eyes levelled with Dick's. He was standing a few meters off, staring in the kind of way only a dolt could, with an expression that said "I know I'm standing smack in the middle of my wheelhouse. I take you and everyone in town to some shit gig because all of a sudden, everyone is gonna have something to bitch about, especially Barry, and I can make myself invisible while you all cackle away at how stunningly unhip today's music is, compared to the glorious seventies that we all whack off dreaming about when no one else is looking." Yes, that's a long and troublesome philosophy to digest, and only three people in the room are currently aware of its existence. Barry, the above-mentioned Dick, and Rob Gordon, the man and the legend himself.
Defeat is too bittersweet a tune, and he clung to its hollow notes of melancholic despair with all the focus he could muster as the sax solos turned into ridiculous Club Med anthems, to everyone's apparently dazed and drunken enjoyment. He scratched his neck, gave his glass a little toss, nodded at the barman, and disappeared towards the loo, unable to look at her anymore. She clearly loved whatever piece of crap new "sub-genre" those clowns were pulling, and taking a leak was all he could do to cleanse his soul of the horrible, horrible letdown this appeared to be in his heart. If she didn't have anymore depth, then surely, he could not risk taking a chance.
After all, Laura pretended she loved Solomon Burke, and once she had uncovered the tragic lie, everything about the marriage had fallen apart.
And there he was, staring down the urinal, not comprehending what on earth his life was even about no more, let alone this farce of an evening down the pits of Nowhere Land listening to all the Waste Bins of the world going for the Live Aid type of mise en scène for the sake of filling a divebar full of wannabe hippies from space.
This very minute, he wanted to pass out. After two drinks. Hearing and feeling nothing would've been such a blessing.
Nevertheless, he did walk out of the men's room, with his head between his legs, and an awfully irritating headache. It sure did not block out the sounds, images, and absurdity of the mathematics of his life and what he always made of it. With one gaze for the exit, he stomped off, pushing several people along the way, gasping for air. He craved it with every single particle of his being. He had to breathe in the decay of Chicago's night-time breeze. Compared to this mess of a shitbox, he would be safe and sound in the middle of the street.