New York Aberrant, July 19, 2007

 

THE SCHMATZI PARTY

 

Goings On About Town With Jessica Schmatzen

 

This past weekend saw the re-opening of Spooterplag after an abrupt hiatus (official story: remodeling, verification of which can be clearly seen; QT story: two, that’s right deux, of the partners in simultaneous detox). Now, I could talk about that which is novel. The fact that they’ve finally dialed down the abhorrent fluorescence in the ladies’ room that made opening the door like an encounter with the beyond. The new shelf over the bar lined with tchotchkes, including an odd confluence of a picture of Marilyn Monroe, a disembodied hand, and a phallus that makes it look as if Norma Jean is up there on that shelf shaking hands with John Thomas. The new multi-hued abstract mural on the wall in the back room that looks to me (I said it there and I’ll say it here) like a bunch of deformed gourds regurgitating. (I have nothing against the piece but do we really need to plant subliminal suggestions in a crowd that has a better than average chance of singing a puke song anyway?) Or the seemingly arbitrary rise in the price of certain libations. (Given the spike in dairy prices, one might expect to pay more for a White Russian and its ilk, but those remain steady.)

            But I’m not going to bring up any of those details, no, no. (You heard me!) Rather, I’d like to share the tale of one particular young man who chose to attend this gala event, and the odd fate that befell his (*snicker*) wardrobe.

The individual in question, no stranger to Spooterplag’s or indeed the scene in general, had chosen to visit the establishment on the evening of its grand risorgimento for the same reason he and so many others had on so many other nights, to whit, in hopes of finding an NYU co-ed willing to take one hand off of her Blackberry long enough to put it down his trousers. Unfortunately for our would-be squire, his verbal flypaper failed to attract anything to his fly, and he ended up with nothing better to do than make his way home like Odysseus, if Odysseus had been wearing a pair of Skechers and toting a half-quart of Midnight Dragon Ale.

            While he distinctly remembers walking past St. Mark’s Church (no mention as to whether the ghost of Peter Stuyvesant was out walking his partridge hound, Erasmus, that night), a mere block away from his apartment, he can’t remember a sainted thing after that. The next thing he does remember is waking up in his bed at home, still wearing his clothes of the previous night.

            And herein is the part that gives the story that special Aberrant twist. It seems that upon further inspection, he discovered that his shirt – the same one that he had worn all night and, from all indications, had never taken off – had been torn into various pieces…and then sewn back together.

            Whether the initial tearing would have borne evidence of teethmarks, more to the point those commonly associated with a bitch in heat, we may never know. But the expert stitching that would be in the case file had this been turned into an actual case would seem to indicate that there is a very talented – and possibly extremely psychotic – midnight tailor out there.

            And for those of you shaking your heads, believing our protagonist may have merely been pulling a gag on Schmatzi (not that she doesn’t occasionally like being gagged), rest assured. I have seen the shirt in question and, as stated above, I know the pup. (Never you mind how well.) More importantly, he knows me, and is well aware that while I may not be Mother Nature – although I remain 98% natural (do overlays count?) – it is equally wicked to attempt to fool me.