Dennis Asiimwe
DISCLAIMER: Been struggling with the usual bout of writer’s block.
I decided to get around it giving my brain a shot up the ass (I genuinely think brains have an ass; it’s where shitty ideas come from).
To jump-start myself, I picked an unusual location to whip out my laptop. You will usually find wannabe writers like myself seated at a snug café with a coffee cup containing a beverage with an unnecessary name (The Dark Nipple, or something that unoriginal); instead, I chose a lounge – Rider’s Lounge in Acacia Place.
I also chose a subject that I really have nothing rational to write about – Valentine’s Day.
I always liked it of course, not for the usual gag-inducing nonsense but for practical reasons; my background in music means I was often working on Valentine’s Day.
Sure, there would be a girl; and yeah, there would be wine, and fancy food, and little black dresses (I genuinely loathe anything red around that time) and heels and legs that just won’t quit and love songs and stuff.
But the girl would be somewhere on the VFIP table reserved for the band (I always insist on a VFIP table when I set up a gig), the wine and fancy food would be complimentary (I always insist on complimentary drinks and food), we would be playing the music and while love wasn’t really in the air as far as I was concerned, money was, because I always insisted that we got paid well.
It’s a day that’s meant for collecting memories, eh? And a day for some interesting break – ups it would seem. One such memory is going home after a Valentine’s Day gig with my date/groupie who was apparently in the middle of a break – up (told you folks break – up around that time). Her phone kept vibrating with the sound of text messages which she studiously ignored. We barely made it past my front door mostly because we were both trying to remove her dress at the same time (which is never a good idea – let one of you do it).
The phone kept vibrating (by now she was down on her knees) as another pitiful text message came in. Swearing with her mouth full, she picked it up (it was lying in a pile with her dress) and typed one-handed while I looked down, admiring her ability to multitask.
The back-lit message read: ‘Yes, I do love you and will always have a special place in my heart for you.’
She flicked the phone’s power switch, flung it away in disdain and resumed using two hands.
Girls are wonderful creatures.
But this isn’t about memories, see? This is about me getting around my writer’s block, and tapping into the bar/restaurant/club atmosphere that is Riders Lounge, Acacia Place, and trying to see if I can drag a fictitious love story out of my ass.
Here goes nothing.
Oh, and in case you were wondering, VFIP stands for Very Fucking Important People.
But I get the feeling you were not. You know…wondering.
