The girl with the rabbit tattoo

The girl with the rabbit tattoo

by Stan Faryna

Stan Faryna

So where do I start? Of course, I have to tell you about the midget in the top hat and black tuxedo. I knew it was going to be a magical night.

Michael Jackson, Billie Jean

You may want to accuse me of looking too often to the naked, young woman simulating auto-erotic behavior in the giant champagne glass.

She wasn’t really naked. Her nipples were covered with duct tape. But, honestly, I was quite taken by the midget. Honestly!

Meanwhile six other dancers in rhinestone-embellished string bikinis shook, trembled, jiggled, thrusted, and gyrated to the beat – a beat so loud, I would leave the club at dawn with damaged ear drums. 48 hours later, my ears are stilling ringing and the cars on the street below sound like ocean waves rolling up on the sea shore.

A young Patrick Swayze look-a-like thrusted his package with force, precision, and tireless discipline for five hours. Did I mention his chiseled abdomen and pecks? He could also make them tremble for five minutes at a go. When he jumped to the beat, he leapt like a missile and landed like a panther.

This was happening on stage.

On the floor, among the sea of black leather couches, armchairs, and white coffee tables, wild things were going on. In my forward line of sight, there were three parties going on.

One: a 20 something man in baggy jeans falling from his hips and a tee shirt. Perhaps, the son of an oligarch. He came with two prostitutes in form fitting something. His friends dropped by on occasion, but he looked bored out of his mind.

Two: a 50-something midget with two prom queens. The prom dresses were mini skirt length. They gave him lap dances. From the looks of it, he had four orgasms with his pants on. Patrick Swayze cheered them on with slow, steady, deep thrusts.

Three: Three hotties who drank six bottles of vodka and made fun of all the men that dared to make an advance. One bent over and revealed a tattoo of the playboy bunny on her left ass cheek. At least, I think it was the playboy bunny, but I was trying not to notice she wasn’t wearing panties.

These were just three of the hundred or so parties going on.

And then there was our party. It was a birthday party for my GF’s boss. So I had to be there – not that I knew what I had signed up for. In fact, I haven’t been out in the city much. But I was there for my GF – trying to be the trophy American BF that her co-workers expected of me. Of course, I failed miserably.

There was no conversation in the ordinary sense. There was no opportunity to demonstrate wit or intelligence – not that I am gifted like that. But I will try – if given the chance.

There was some texting: I’m drunk! You are funny man. Where’s your drink? Bottom’s up? Get up and dance! You are mad man! You like ass on bitch at next couch?

People typed and showed the text on their phone to you.

I thought to contribute some humor to the text party, so I tapped out my message:

Blessed are the pure of heart for they shall see God. Matthew 5:8.

But then I thought better of my parody. I deleted the text. After all, I wasn’t here for my entertainment. I was here for moral support. Moral what?

Did I mention this birthday party was for the CEO of a company with multi-million dollar annual profit?

My GF’s boss out drank me (four bottles to my one bottle), he danced like a tiger for five hours, and he seemed to be saying the same thing to all of the other men (with women) at his party:

That we shouldn’t feel bad that he has his hand in all of our cookie jars. This is life. Get over it. Get drunk. Tonight, he’s paying for our booze.

I could say more but I won’t.

Around 5am, a housey bastardization of Michael Jackson’s song, Billie Jean, came up. I pulled some of Michael’s moves out of a hat and earned a little respect. Thereby, I earned my keep for the night. Almost.

But I have to say that I feel shattered as a man and a human being. The universe is broken. I want to cry. The future is hell and the future is now. What’s worse than that?

I’ll tell you.

It’s when you are obsolete. When you aren’t meaningful to a world like this. When you got nothing that the world wants.

Postscript:

The title is inspired by the title and subject of Bill Dorman’s post, The Girl With The Rabbit Tattoo. Bill Dorman is a friend, fellow blogger, and aspiring novelist. Although I have been reluctant to publish it for a week or more, I found courage today after reading Jack Steiner’s The Naked Truth Never Lies. Jack is also an aspiring novelist. And since we’re on the subject of friends, bloggers, and aspiring authors, I would be remiss not to mention Billy Delaney and John Magnet Bell.

Stan Faryna
02 April 2012
Bucharest, Romania

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8 Responses to The girl with the rabbit tattoo

  1. Write fearlessly and let your words fly free.

    • Stan Faryna says:

      Yes, Jack. That’s something we can do – even when it seems we do not belong to this world. Write fearlessly.

  2. billdorman says:

    Obsolete? Dude……….you are the most relevant one in this joint. You will get it all figured out.

    I’m at the point where not only do girls not hear me anymore; they don’t even see me either……………sheesh…………

    Life, social, it is all very fluid; it seems you have to being going Mach V w/ your hair on fire just to stay even. That is probably true to a certain extent but certainly never stop to take time and enjoy the journey. I know it might not be something you want to enjoy when it’s kicked you squarely in the balls, but you are a survivor my friend. Just keep moving forward………

    Thanks for the mention.

    • Stan Faryna says:

      I love your metaphor of pushing Mach V with your hair on fire, Bill.

      The doubling of processing power every 18 months has hit the wall – complexity of circuit design seems to be at its limits for now. All those brilliant microelectronic engineers can seem to do now is add more processors to the equation and even doing that seems to be limited by the lack of a robust machine language capacity for parallel and distributive processing of different computations.

      If the speed of culture has been driven by computational speed, then we may actually get some time to reflect on things at Mach V (not an easy thing to do) before the warp engines go online.

      Friday, I’m headed for the painted monasteries of Bucovina (northern Romania). I’m slipping back into the past where horse-drawn wagons match the number of cars on the road, chickens roam freely, and cows know how to get from home to field and back on their own. I will return renewed…

  3. Stan this hits the nerves and sends the mind reeling.
    People like us have long passed our sell by, or sell-out date. We not only don’t belong, we are sand in the eyes of these blind muttons.
    It is the Great Grey Mush. It oozes into things now. It is a mass. When did it begin. When reading, good music, conversation and personality died at the smorgasboard alter of indifference.
    Stan, this generation wants a lot. This generation wants meaning. People like Bill Dorman, You! and others like you are what they want. But they want you in a fashion they can take, for they don’t understand you.
    Stand fast… the world is shaking.

    • Stan Faryna says:

      “Stand fast… the world is shaking.”

      Your turn of phrase reminds me of Ulysses bound at the mast.

      Tied to the mast, Ulysses struggled against human impulse, the prejudice, the excitement, and the frenzy of the moment. All of which begged to seal demise and misfortune with a savage kiss.

  4. […] may be obsolete (indeed this is something we shall see – sooner or later), but even the obsolete will laugh, […]

  5. Stan, there will always be places where we are ‘obsolete’ and people for whom we are worthless.

    Such is life.

    Sometimes one looks for fellowship in the wrong places. So must it be.

    True friendship, which is like a brotherhood of the soul, is rarer than tantalum. I wouldn’t even say gold, because gold is comparatively abundant. But no-one’s ever heard of tantalum, even though it’s in pretty much every cellphone on Earth.

    Hidden.

    People die extracting tantalum — the only known reserve of tantalum is in Africa.

    People die digging up a metal they will never use or truly benefit from so that a drunk can text “you like ass on bitch at next couch.”

    The world has a way of making us all… irrelevant. The only answer is to snap your jaws and show you’re not a pushover.

Speak from your heart!

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