Last night I saw The Black Keys with my friend Arthur down at Terminal 5 on the west side of Manhattan. We got our drink on and listened to some amazing blues riffs as people around us smoked the stuff that killed Elvis. Arthur and I could tell the show was about to end, and in order to slink out before the mob followed, we made use of the bathrooms one last time, and then we headed for the stairs when I spotted a man standing there who looked familiar. Like, you know, famous. Just a trick of the flickering lights and the aftereffects of second-hand pot, probably. But no, the resemblance was uncanny.
So I walk up to said individual and say:
“Excuse me, but are you Joss Whedon?”
And he says, “Yes, that’s me.”
So then I started gushing all fanboy-like, “Oh, I’m such a huge fan of your work!” I shook his hand. “Don’t you have a new show coming out soon?”
“Yes,” he says. “Dollhouse. This here’s Eliza Dushku.”
A beautiful woman a few paces away from Joss gives me a shy wave. Arthur steps up to her and shakes her hand. Now, when I looked at this woman, I thought she was familiar too, but I couldn’t place her face. It was only after I started walking away in some kind of celebrity-induced haze that I realized that she was Faith from Buffy. She had her hair up and, well, didn’t look murderous or punk but rather glam.
Afterwards, Arthur and I gushed to each other like school girls with crushes.
“Did you know who that was?” I said. “That was Joss [expletive] Whedon!”
And he says, “Who’s he?”
“He created Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”
He shrugs. “So what,” he says. “That was Eliza Dushku!”
And I said, “Where do you know her from?”
He looks up to the sky, shrugs again. “From somewhere.”
“The Internet?” I said.
“Eliza Dushku!” he says, holding his hand out as if it’s made of gold. “She shook my hand.”
“Joss [expletive] Whedon!” I shouted.
It went on like this for more than an hour.
Later, I took the bus home and fell asleep with my head against the window. The driver woke me at the last stop: Hoboken Terminal. So I hopped in a cab. Suddenly, this dude with an 80’s-style mohawk jumps in the front and says, “Get in girls!”
Two very young and very beautiful and very pierced girls sidle in next to me. The one beside me introduces herself as Amanda. She’s wearing latex pants, double belts with lots of jangly things, and has piercings in her lips bigger than rose thorns. She’s like Faith, only real and with more holes in her body. “You’re not shiny enough!” Amanda admonishes me.
I told her I’d left my PVC outfit at home.
“I’m very drunk,” she says. “I need more beer. Everyone needs more beer. Are you drunk, Matt?”
“Quite,” I said.
“Good!” she smiles.
We reach their stop and Amanda and her friends pop out of the car. “I love you Matt!” Amanda shouts back to me.
And I respond, “I love you too Amanda!”
And the three of them run across the desolate street to some place, I presume, with more beer. Part of me wants to go with them. But, you know, I had work and reality back in the morning.
So yeah, it was that kind of night.