Attack of the 50 ft. Woman
“Hi mom, so can you come down to the sweaty indie-rock club tonight and bring me a knee brace so I can play guitar?” Great. Fucking awesome.
How did this happen? The plan was simple enough: after two amazing nights at the UMS, stop into Denver’s favorite indie dance party Lipgloss to see Mr. M dj and have a drink with some old friends. What could go wrong?
I’m not sure what the first sign of trouble was. Could it have been her bedazzled hipster-head band? Or the disco-ball glitter eye shadow? Or the fact that the jolly-hipster-giant wearing them was charging her 28th shot of tequila to her credit card? That’s right, I said 28. These are questions that may never be answered. Perhaps the problem was that from my diminutive vantage point, I simply couldn’t see the danger stumbling toward me like a giant drunken pinball.
I was distracted. I was anxious and excited about playing our UMS set the next day. We’d been running all over town in search of impossible-to-find cables for our visual projections. We’d gotten the mastered tracks for the new EP and spent hours burning copies to hand out at the show. I’d been spray-paining our name on 60 discs in my front courtyard that afternoon.
Still high from spray-paint fumes, we were sipping our beers and bobbing our heads when a blonde wrecking-ball knocked me into the stage and nearly onto the ground leaving a blur of glitter in her wake. At this point, a smarter person would’ve dusted herself off and walked away, but not this girl.
Feeling embarrassed about being tiny and so easily shoved around, my inner Napoleon decided to march over there and tell her cleavage (did I mention how tall she was?), in no uncertain terms, this girl will not be pushed around.
In her tequila-soaked desire to apologize she threw her arms around me and promptly fell to the ground like a giant redwood crashing through the forest, bringing me down with her. As we fell I thought: please let go of me giant drunk lady–is my ass exposed right now?—this is going to hurt—Fuck.
The two of us lay sprawled on the floor, me on top of her, my dress over my head, flailing about like fish in a boat. I thought, this is awkward, maybe no one saw…(in a club with 300 other people). My beer can was crushed, along with my ego, and oh yeah, my fucking knee cap and a couple ribs. Really giant hipster girl??? Great apology. She was, of course, unharmed.
You may not know this about me, but there is really nothing I like better than sitting at the club with an ice pack on my throbbing purple knee wondering if I’m going to be able to stand and play guitar at the biggest rock festival in the west the next day. Fucking sweet. I can’t say I was sad when security hauled her ass out.
We got home and I realized I didn’t have any ace bandages, so I cut up an old camouflage tee shirt and wrapped it around my knee. (who says I’m not DIY?)
We did have an amazing show the next day, despite my inability to do kung-fu kicks. And I managed to hobble around the showcase all night with the aid of Advil and a heavy dose of whiskey, but the moral of the story is this: If the giant hipster girl knocks into you and doesn’t take you down on the first try, walk away. Just walk away.
~Kitty Vincent
Eyeliner: music, hipsters, and other bullsh*t 