Diary of a Bushwick Bedbug, 3

What’s up, folks? I had a pretty wild adventure a week or so back. I went for another ride on that Minnesota girl. She went to a gig at some bar in Brooklyn called Barbes. I don’t know what she’s doing, because this seemed more like a hippy joint than a hipster thing. But, hey, it’s nice to get out anyhow! Or so I thought. As it turned out, I was lucky to make it out of there alive!

When she walked in the gig hadn’t started, but it was crowded with funky hippies and global village yuppies. The hippies were milling around and telling stories about the gigs they’d been to and pictures they saw on passedoutwookies.com when one of them tripped over a bag of hoola-hoops and spilled her free range, vegan coffee all over Minnesota’s shoulder and damn near boiled me alive! It was so fucking hot, I thought I was going to melt, but somehow, I survived. I guess I’m tougher than I thought. Or maybe the free range, cruelty free coffee had mercy on me. Minnesota wasn’t hurt, but she sure got passive-aggressive on the spiller, saying "don’t worry, I’m okay," and then grumbling evil things about her make-up all night.

I thought the night had started badly, but seconds later, one of those global village yuppies spilled her chocolate martini all over Minnesota’s shoulder! It was cooler than the coffee, which came as a relief, but I got a big mouthful of that chocolate-tasting vermouth, or whatever they make martinis with, and man, was I hammered. I don’t know if six legged creatures can stagger, but if we can, I definitely was.

So there’s me, staggering around on Minnesota’s shoulder when the music starts and she starts "dancing". I think this girl’s having an identity crisis. Is she Bushwick or Vermont?

The band was some kind of east African music with Arabic and Indian influences and I have to admit, I was kind of digging it. Maybe it was the chocolate martini. Anyway, there’s me on Minnesota’s shoulder and I’m kind of dancing and staggering and really feeling that martini and the next thing I know I fell off Minnesota onto some chick’s dashiki!

Friends, being stuck in Park Slope is a fucking death sentence for a bedbug. These people can afford exterminators, for one thing. It’s like Darfur over there with yuppie janjaweed wiping out whole bedbug civilizations. Not to mention the soundtrack. Emmylou fucking Harris and NPR all fucking Sunday while they carp about their mortgages and how the bagels at the coop are just not that good anymore. It’s enough to drive a bedbug mad. You’re almost happy when the exterminator comes. But I digress. I had to get back to Minnesota or face destruction in Park Slope amongst the yuppies.

So the dashiki woman, it turns out, is part of the band. She kinda dances over next to the drummer on the other side of the kit, separating me from Minnesota. Dashiki woman is jiving around and shaking her gourd-o-beans or whatever when she brushes up against the drummer. Minnesota’s on the other side of him now, so I seized my chance and leapt onto his arm and crawled across his back. Well, on the way, I’m feeling a little hungry, so I have a little bite to hold me over till later. Mmm… blood.

All of a sudden, my head is spinning even more. This fucking guy is so high that I can barely crawl! It’s almost like his blood is all THC! So I get all disoriented and start crawling out of his sleeve and along his arm, out toward his drumsticks. I don’t know where the fuck I’m going, mind you, but I’m going. I can see Minnesota in the distance like Mount Rushmore during an earthquake, bouncing up and down on the drummer’s hand as he rides the high-hat.

Suddenly, he hits the snare for a rim shot and I go fucking flying like I was launched out of a catapult. I’m tumbling ass over elbow through the air, the hippies spinning below me like a kaleidoscope of unwashed hair, their patchouli funk and pot-smoke stank rising like swamp gas and I’m thinking "This is it, Curtis, you’re done for."

Well, I don’t know how the hell it happened, but somehow I landed on Minnesota’s hand bag. I crawled back up her sleeve and parked myself right there in her armpit and held on for dear life.
I tell you, I felt like fucking Indiana Jones after that night. The funny thing is, rather than be scared, I actually felt kind of high. Not because of the stoner drummer and the chocolate martini, but because of the action. I think I liked it! I used to be a stay at home kind of bedbug. But now? I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting a taste for adventure. I’ll keep you posted.

Cheers and Happy New Year,

Curtis