Thursday, 11 August 2005 | Carol, 1983

Last night Kathryn and I went to see the band Clap Your Hands Say Yeah at the Southside Seaport, on a stage underneath empty sails and skyscrapers. We stood in line for Stella-Artois-in-an-RC-cup for most of the show, but it wasn't so bad because the line snaked through the audience anyway; the only difference between the beer queue and the audience was the direction people were facing.

We left before the headliners finished playing, to eat greasy seafood at a place that had a hundred bras nailed to the wall, most of which were signed and dated in Sharpie: "Carol" on the left cup, "1983" on the right.

While I was standing at the bar and looking up at the menu, an old drunk man of about fifty-three stared at me until I finally looked back at him. He had a red moustache that curled around to the corners of his mouth, almost handlebar-style, and he involuntarily swayed while he stood. "Duhn lisssen to these guys," he slurred at me, motioning to a group of disinterested men behind him with a sloppy wave. "They duhn know what thar talkin about." No one else had said anything to me, but I nodded and told him OK, I won't. A moment later, he changed sides of the room, propped his body against a wall, and watched the space in front of him, his eyes glazed over.

The place was filled with older men who seemed lonely. They came in groups, only to stare at other tables, or at the TV. The aggressively heterosexual table of blondes and jocks got the most attention. I admit, I was watching them too, mostly out of fascination.

Later we went to a comedy show, and then onto Mark Mothersbaugh's art opening, where I saw a flowerpot hat, a man wearing a mask of a woman's face and Mickey Mouse ears, and a person dressed as a Twinkie. I finished my book while waiting for the train.