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3:26 pm | 06 October 2004 | THE TIME I did not SLEEP WITH GREG DULLI

Okay so I am one of the craziest Whigs fans ever, as in: still sporting my DRINK IT SMOKE IT STICK IT IN shirt on the weekends, able to (within 15 seconds) pin the source of Franz Ferdinand's egregious riff theft not on the Zep (although yeah) but on Whigs--obscurely. Soooo Princess Nutty McHeadcase about that fucking band, right? Right. But it wasn't ever like a Ohmygodsohot! Aiie, omg!! ROFL, what member of 98 Degrees will you marry? whatever love. They aren't pretty. Dulli, even in the mid-'90s when i got on board the Afghan Express, looks like a fat Elvis Aaron Hitler. Adolf Presley. Whatever. No, it was a Oh sing out the deepest yearnings of my frustrated soul love. It was a "Hey dude, you've had 'Be Sweet' on repeat for three days, can you TAKE IT THE FUCK OFF" said my roommate kind of love. So in like 1997 they were playing in Cincinnati, not only close to my stomping ground BUT their HOMETOWN, for fuck's sake. So it's like a must, right? I get around to talking to a local record store owner, this fat sweaty fuck we'll call Dan since I forgot his name and nobody I know on LJ is named Dan and therefore won't be offended, is all "Yeah I know him, I'll get you backstage." NOW: he pronounced "Dulli" wrong so I had misgivings, but whatever.

So my friend and I head down to Cincinnati that Thursday night in my original shitty beige Taurus (you could punch holes in the body. AWESOME). Dan is in the backseat being a revolting perv. I'm 18 and my idea of good fashion is: a black slip and boots. Okay, so I was actually smoking, so sue me.

The show is rad, whatever, whatever, they cover the Stones' "Beast of Burden" and it's a Universal Boner* to the entire crowd. In a gleaming Charlie Bucket Moment I find someone's orange over-21 wristband** on the floor and get wasted on Jim Beam. The gods of improbability continued to smile because we ended up backstage at this nasty sweaty beer-spaulted (I just made this word up) venue (and mind you, it's not huge--definitely smaller than the Metro in Chicago or the Wiltern in LA). Anyway, we end up backstage. It should be noted that Dan is über-wasted and gross at this point, like he looks like Kevin Smith aged fifty and...guhugh---uhhshgh. He was like passed out in the men's room and I voted for leaving him there but then I would lose my massive discounts on Suede imports, so no go.

Anyway: backstage. I inch towards Greg, who is lounging on some tacky like divan or whatever, totally way short and massively sweaty, as well as wearing one of those woven oxford shirts that are like iridescent or whatever (not a good plan for the portly or rotund). Do I care? NO. He is sex on Cuban heels.*** I sidle closer. He looks up from his cigarette miasma, the fug of hot smoky booty surrounding him the way a nimbus of booze and destruction usually surrounds me. At this point: HAYWIRE.

I lurch in and loom over him. He peers up through squinty eyeballs. I mumble something IN FRENCH, because I am lame and have unhoned skills (reminder: I am 18). He cocks his head. "I don't actually speak French, baby." Me: "Oh. Uh. I thought you did. It's in your songs and you live in New Orleans." Him: "Nope. Baby, are you Eastern European?" (Arm snakes around my planklike torso.) Me: "Uh. No. [Here is where the real foot-in-mouth genius comes into play.] Why? Do I look like a refugee?" Him: "..." Me: "Heh heh. You know, like I crawled out from under some rubble? Uh...heh. Um." Him: [Gamely; still trying.] "So what are you doing after this?" Me: "Uh, I don't know. I mean--a couple people are with me--" His hand is totally SHIFTING AROUND on my beslipped back and he is sort of dragging me closer and I'm all uh shit oh erm hiiiiiii and THEN--

Dan surfaces, like an obese beponytailed spectre of the ALBATROSS of my MISERABLE SHITRIDDEN EXISTENCE. I'll paraphrase here. I end up leaving. SANS Greg. With Dan, and my friend. They both fall asleep on the SIX HOUR drive him--him perfuming the Taurus's plush interior with a range of brassy farts--and I am totally hallucinating heaps of dead deer on the side of the road, I'm so slightly-drunk and tired and (oh let's just say it) HOBBLED with lust (I have this problem where if I get turned on I get kind of stupid and out of it and lightheaded until, um, the moment has passed. Seriously, it's a problem). And then we went home. And I left some things out of this tale for decency's sake but I have never filled the void that was The Time I Did Not Get To Sleep With Greg Dulli. TA-DA!

**Dudes for this reason I fully claim the Twilight Singers (post-Whigs) track "Teenage Wristband" as my own.
***I made that up. His shoes were plain black ones, like Chelsea boots.

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