Peach Fuzz Knows how to Party

This weekend was dedicated to the wonders of literacy. With two amazing publishing events scheduled, I set out to fill my brain with wise words. First stop: party at the gay bar for a nudie magazine. Gods I love reading. 

Peach Fuzz, you know you want it!

This great little magazine called Peach Fuzz is photographed, written, and published by former coworkers of my darling wife. They're a couple of local honeys who believe in the celebration of art, sex and (possibly) wrestling the reigns of pornography away from the old, the male, and the perverse. They throw great birthday parties for their beautiful selves every year, and I am never one to say nay to a celebration of sexual empowerment. 

We arrived around 8:30, paid the $5 to the vivacious bouncer and made our way in, past the display rack of back issues, bought a drink I was sure to spill on a magazine if I held both at once, and went out to the dance floor.

Fortunately the band was on. So instead of having to describe all the wild sensations of a drink made with kombucha, whiskey and ginger I followed my wife to the stage.

A disclaimer:

I am a bad dancer. I consider myself to be in the zone if I can manage to get all four limbs moving- not to the beat, just moving. My patented move is a lean to the left followed by a lean to right with maybe a few snaps and fists pumps worked in. That's the pinnacle of my pop moves. Yet, much to the average concert-goers dismay, I still dance when I go to live show. I dance because my darling wife loves to dance. That and she's able to make her laughter seem like its warm-hearted and supportive instead of cruel and at my expense.

The  Avocados rule. See them. 

So anyways, we danced, or Raquel danced I wiggled to keep up. We jigged and bobbed while the Avocados jammed surfer medleys with power chords and a whimsy whammy keyboard that was too cool for school. Too cool for dancing it seemed. I was, and I really don't intend to brag, the third best dancer there. The only people with better moves were my wife and a fella in a green t-shirt who had the moves to make yo mama say what. He gyrated and jumped on and across the dance floor while Raquel and I quietly boogie-woogied on stage left.

The rest of the crowd however, my own lame friends included, did nothing but feign apathy and discuss the merits of smoking cigarettes. Erg. Hipsters. Why care so much about not caring? These poor misguided souls who get all dressed up with their mullets and reverse mullets, their pierced this and tattooed that, their designer shoes from thrift stores, these poor souls do all these silly rebellious anti-actions just to go out to a show and fit in. Jokes on them, if they danced, someone might notice their sweet outfit!

Have they never read the Far Side? Master Larson once said,

“Tis better to stand out than to fit in.”

Somehow, somewhen, these poor souls forget that we are what we do, not what we wear. Clothing became the way of expressing that most worthless yet most desirable of all character traits: being cool. Dancing is the antithesis of cool. And yet, when I'm out there shaking a leg (that is literally one of the only moves I know) and I look around at the crowd of disinterested torn-denim wearing kids who seem just to cool for anything, I detected a hint of… jealousy? Envy at my willingness to embarrass myself in front of them all for the sake of one silly woman?

It can be argued that its easy to go out on a limb and be a fool when you're already married. I won't argue that, but then again I always wonder how these people think us fools and limb-danglers ever managed to get in a relationship in the first place. It wasn't by being cool. I promise you that.  But you know what? I'm OK with not being cool. (not caring about not being cool makes me cool right? Please?)

Any way we boogied and we woogied while the Avocados grinned only at us and thanked only us for being there and asked us if they could keep playing while the crowd generally tried to ignore us. The Avocados played until they didn't, and only then did the crowd press forward.

Sometimes it can be difficult for people to leave their shell. Many of us fear what strangers think, or what friends will say, or what some fool on the internet will write about, but in my experience, there is a great unifying force that causes men and women, blacks, whites, yellows and reds, straights, queers, and those in between to all toss their coolness to the curb with their half-finished cigarettes, crowd in, and just live in the moment.

That force is sex.

I know, right? Sorry, no nips were photographed. 

The bringer of that force this evening were two young women in black negligees, high heels and lingerie dancing and kicking and stripping on stage. Long gone were the clusters and cliques, only the crowd remained. Gay men, straight women, even my lame friends all shoved in close for a chance to see nip.

These ladies were too classy for that though. They pranced around, tossed a scarf that happened to be half their wardrobe to the wind, and, upon realizing their mistake, pickedit up oh-so-slowly. Sometimes they couldn't find their footing and had to crawl across the stage, whipping their long luxurious hair out of the eyes. Hubba. Hubba. Poor things.

They performed for about ten minutes and vanished. We all felt… well, you know the feeling. And if you don't, you either have the patience of a monk or a monkey, and I'm not sure I envy either end of the sexuality spectrum.

The next band began to play, but after watching two beautiful women dance on stage and dancing with an even more beautiful woman in front of it, I had no interest in their surfer psychedlic nonsense. Just to cool for that, you know? So we left, snagged the latest issue of Peach Fuzz on our way out, and headed home.

I gotta hand it to Peach Fuzz. Dem ladies know how to party. Check out their next event. Just make sure you bring your dancing shoes. Those burlesque dancers need some people besides yours truly who can stand up to their sweet moves.