- ALLEN SAID IM GONNA GIT YOU SUCKA LISTENING FULL
- ALLEN SAID IM GONNA GIT YOU SUCKA LISTENING PORTABLE
She is embraced of the moment, full with the spirit, completely ungenerous with fucks and possibly bordering on the near side of alcohol poisoning. She is not a talented dancer by any stretch of the imagination, and her gracelessness is unable to keep up with her abandon. Look at her, spinning like a politician, bouncing like a bad check, bopping to the beat like the beat is all there is. She is alone, like him, and she is, unlike him, utterly, utterly turnt. He turns away from the ghastly scene, just in time to notice a young woman dancing nearby. Without her, he is vestigial, useless, alone. That’s why they got along, at least in the beginning, a shared appreciation for the twin pleasures of pointing at a fool and laughing at a fool. Are they not dumbs?” But Naomi was always the person to whom he pointed these sorts of things out. He desperately wants to point the terribleness of this scene out to someone, to say, “Hey, look at them.
We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old, “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”Īpollo cannot bear to watch this any longer. Naomi is doing a better job, undulating her buttocks with a certain aplomb, a captivating bootyliciousness that might stir jiggly bedroom memories in the heart of the lay observer. He stutters from side to side with little regard for the twos and fours, and the occasional thrusts of his crotch are little more than burlesque, without the slightest suggestion of genuine eroticicsm. The meat-man against whom Naomi vibrates has no rhythm, no soul he is as unfunky as the bad guys on Parliament-Funkadelic albums. Speaking merely as an observer, a man with a love of Beauty and Dance in his heart, Apollo judges their performance unconvincing. That she and Apollo once shared an intimate relationship has nothing to do with this judgment. Apollo finds this an entirely unappealing sight.
Naomi is on the other side of the crowd, grinding against her new boyfriend, Marcus, a musclebound meat-man stuffed into a spectacularly tacky t-shirt. It is 2009 again, the last year that music was any good, preserved in digital amber and reanimated via computer magic.Īpollo boogies on the margins, between the edge of the party and the edge of the roof, surrounded by revelers but basically alone.
ALLEN SAID IM GONNA GIT YOU SUCKA LISTENING PORTABLE
A phone is hooked up to a portable sound system, and the speakers are kicking out rapture. It is a good party, and the surrounding night is beautiful, warm and soft and speckled with stars. There are three kegs, a table of wines and liquor, cake and nachos inside. Some Mia or Mina is throwing it, the white girl with the jean jacket and the headband and the two-bumps-of-molly grin, flitting from friend circle to friend circle, laughing loudly and refilling any empty cup in her eyeline from a bottomless jug of sangria, Maenad Sicagi. A party on a westside roof, just before midnight. Series: The Tales of Gorlen Vizenfirthe.Series: From the Lost Travelers’ Tour Guide.People of Colo(u)r Destroy Science Fiction!.
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