Yes, We Go To Church On Sundays

TheChurch_12th-Lincoln.jpgSo I’ve been busy. Busy busy busy busy busy. (Have I mentioned that I write? Yeah. Like just about everyone else around here.) And Sunday afternoon my busy-ness ceased in the best of all possible ways: a successful submission of the requested manuscript by the agreed-upon deadline. That calls for a celebration, by golly! Time to put my glad rags on and–

No, wait. We’re going to The Church. More like, sad rags. Or angsty rags. Or something. And as a matter of precise fact, by the end of the night we had cause to wear enough gothy angst on our sad raggedy sleeves than you can choke a Doberman with.

More! Below the break! Now!

So, first we have The Church at 12th and Lincoln. It used to be one in the congregational sense, but then the building was sold and a night club installed inside it. I’ve only ever been on Sunday nights, and I’ve only ever been downstairs. I understand that upstairs is just some routine hip-hoppity kind of DJ spindle. Rah rah. I understand that around one in the morning they get all loud and stuff, with bull-horns. I don’t exactly understand why. I just go downstairs. That’s where the goth music goes on.

There’s two DJs down there. One of ’em spins and mashes the goth all industrial-style; the other sticks to a fairly standard fare consisting of trance and ’80s new wave. My husband and I tend to spend the hours from ten until midnight roaming around between the two, chasing music we like and people we want to converse with. “Converse,” of course, is a euphemism for “Lean up close to each other’s ears and yell in hopes of having one word in five make contact.” Generally conversations happen on the porch outside, which you get to via a door in the corner of the trance room, but in the winter they keep that door locked. So we just yell.

And of course Valentine’s Day is coming up around the corner. The usual collection of goth outfits–spiderweb stockings, pale pancake and black eyeliner, top hats, safety pins, and more–was expanded into shades of pink and red. Feather boas abounded. The cookie fairy made the rounds handing out heart-shaped, pink-iced cookies. Much fun!

corset_piercing_closeup.jpgA very good friend of ours was there, and her Jolly Roger bikini/brassiere thing set off quite nicely her brand new piercings. I don’t know how you feel about piercings, amigos, but I thought they were awesome. Thirteen shiny silver rings had been carefully arranged on one side of her midriff so as to support a heart-shaped corset-style criss-crossing of red lace. It was freakin’ gorgeous. Apparently the guy who did ’em, his name is Iguana, and our friend was specifically out to show off his handiwork upon her person and get him some new customers.

So much fun was had until midnight, at which point both myself and another in our group decided we were about to turn into pumpkins (I am such a wimp). So we headed out and got in our cars and took off–

No, wait. Our friends were ready to take off. We, on the other hand, found ourselves in a car that Wouldn’t Go. We thought we were driving a Saturn ’97 SW2, but as it turns out we were driving a Nova. (Ha! I make funny. Laugh with me! Laugh, dammit!) Jumper cables availed us not. Jiggling the car, while it relieved our aggressions somewhat, failed to make magic. AAA Colorado were our friends, and they got a tow truck out to us… in about an hour. In the cold. Bored and silly while the upstairs Church entrance erupted in the aforementioned 1:00 AM yells and bull-horn blasts. Eventually my husband and the tow truck guy got our car to Saturn of Longmont (amidst curses aimed at Saturn’s general direction for having shut down the Boulder facility that was within walking distance of our house) and one of our goth-going friends drove the rest of us home. He then drove out to Unincorporated Weld County to pick up my husband and bring him back to Boulder, where my husband treated him to an IHOP breakfast.

(The Boulder IHOP is excellent, by the way. But about this, more another time.)

(Yes, I know I keep saying that.)

$800 and 18 hours later, we once more have a car. With a brand new fuel pump, crank sensor, and engine coolant sensor. We now expect that sucker to run at least another decade.

At least we can safely say that last night we were the angstiest Goths in the crowd. Bragging rights belong to Chez LeBoeuf-Little and friends. Fear our freaky mopiness. Fear it to the tune of Duran Duran’s “Come Undone.”

2 Comments so far

  1. till (unregistered) on February 14th, 2006 @ 4:24 pm

    Angsty? :-) It’s always a pleasure to see how America adopts more words from my most favorite language. On a side-note, welcome to Metblogs!

  2. Philipp (unregistered) on February 15th, 2006 @ 3:22 am

    Have to agree with Till, angsty is even better than my previous favourite Weltschmerz, just because it has that language fusion-touch. Welcome to the network, Denver :)

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