How I Met Pansy

True to my word to you, dear readers, I attended a musical concert at one of Williamsburg's many bars last weekend. Saccharine Pansy and Her Trail of Tears was the opening act, and I think it is fair to say that no finer opener had ever graced a stage. Of course, in this case, it wasn't precisely a stage, more of a corner of the grimy, underlit bar, but regardless, Pansy was luminescent. It physically pains me to attempt to describe her sensational performance with my poor words, so I will instead entreat you once again to watch video footage of Tulip Sweet (either the one below or "Rising Action" from my previous post), replacing her with a woman twice as graceful, a hundred times as vibrant, a thousand times more beautiful; should you manage that feat, you will have at some bare idea of how captivating Pansy truly is.



The act ended in what seemed like seconds, but my untouched hot toddy had become cold, so it must have been close to an hour. In the wake of that artful masterpiece, I felt hot and cold at once, and only one thought occupied my mind: Pansy. My quest to become a hipster felt far away indeed, and I longed to strip myself of my ironic apparel and cast myself literally and figuratively naked at her feet, and implore her to tell me what man haunted her dreams, and do everything in my power to become that man.

Do not fear, dear reader; I was able to master that impulse! If I have learned nothing over the twenty-odd years of my life, it's that the above approach, while satisfying in its abandon, does not, in general, work. No, I steeled my heart, and gave control of my body back to my brain, which quickly posited the following: 1) as a denizen of the hipster world, Pansy would only be attracted to hipsters; 2) her star was of sufficient wattage that I would need to be among the pinnacle of hipsterdom to seek her company; 3) I had become established enough to at least introduce myself.

The thought of actually speaking to sweet Pansy was enough to shock me out of my reverie, and I took stock of my situation: I was still clapping (which, as it was a good five minutes after the performance had ended, was beginning to draw stares); my mouth was gaping open in what I assumed was a foolish manner; and as my tight jeans made abundantly clear, my regard for Pansy extended to the physical. With a Herculean effort, I lowered my arms, affected the disinterested smirk that comprised my "game face," and attempted to minimize, as unobtrusively as I could, the swelling threatening to burst my jeans at the seams.

Thus fortified, I made my way to the crowded bar, and within seconds, found her sitting (miracle of miracles!) alone. Taking a deep breath, I adjusted myself once again, and approached.

"Hey," I said. (I have, as you will note, gained at least some small understanding of the mores of hipster romance!)

She looked up at me from under her veil of golden bangs, and it took all my willpower to turn the smile that threatened to break out over my face into a frown, and prevent myself from uttering the words that trembled at my lips: "I love you, mind, body, and soul."

"Nice set," I said instead.

Her bright red lips curled upwards in a smile, transforming her face into a heavenly vision of beauty. Could a creature so refined even be human?

"Thanks," she said. A shudder went through me as she looked me over, and I unobtrusively dropped a hand over my resurgent tumescence. "So what, you want to try and get in my pants?"

Shocked out of my feigned disinterest, I responded honestly. "I would kill for the chance. Let me prove myself; I will worship you from afar, write sonnets in your honor--anything."

Her face disappeared under her bangs as I cursed my weakness, then I noticed that her shoulders were shaking. Was she laughing? She looked up at me again, her face inscrutable.

"Yeah, okay. Our next gig is on Wednesday. Same time, same place. I'll bring you up on stage when I want you to read."

I nodded, dumbstruck.

"Oh, and wear exactly what you're wearing now. It's hilarious."

I stared, knowing I should say something--a sarcastic quip or backhanded compliment, but when I opened my mouth to speak, no words came out.

"Okay," she said. "We're done here." And with that, she turned towards the person next to her--the accordion player from her band, I realized--and I slipped quickly out of the bar just as the drums from the headline act began to pound.