A night at The Verge. Riviera play their last gig of their residency at the venue, and invite me onstage to do dance movements. Alex S tells me afterwards that I resemble his idea of Terminator 3, and that I should take this as a compliment. I have to admit that if my parents were to tell me that I was, in fact, an android assassin from the future, my life would instantly make far more sense.
Christmas is coming, and the singles are getting sad. One friend is in a bit of a state, and tells me that they can't bear the fact that the person they are currently in love with has been telling them of their plans to spend the seasonal period with their own other half. That is, Someone Else.
I muse on the realisation that, as low as my life has reached, I am lucky enough never to have been once besmirched by the green-eyed monster. I have never experienced jealousy in my life. The times when I've seen people I've been attracted to in the arms of others have, if they've solicited any response at all, only made me feel, "Well, clearly, they are a better human being than I am."
I gaze into the abyss, and the abyss gazes right back and tells me, "Well, at least your hair is nice."
And so, this is ultimately what I only really know to be true. Born alone, dream alone, die alone. The rest is just staring in the mirror, ensuring that the hair is as perfect as possible. That the make-up is in place. That the suit is looking nice. I take comfort in dead authors and Touche Eclat. They will always remain true. What else is there?
Do you want to know about my fabulous dance technique? When I dance, I imagine that at the end of the song, I will be executed instantly. And so when you see me on the dancefloor in some club, I really am dancing for my life. I'm not there trying to impress anyone else, trying to catch the eye of some comely youth. I imagine myself alone in the universe, dancing to the end of Time, dancing to the end of my life. It keeps my steps from becoming sloppy.
What am I trying to tell you? Perhaps I should refer you to a dream I had the other night. I was throwing a "Come As Olivia Newton-John" party. Too many people turned up as Bad Sandy Olivia from "Grease", with the skintight black trousers. They were unhappy, because the walls were crawling with cute unhappy youths who always preferred Good Sandy Olivia in the film, the prim and proper one. And then there were people dressed as Xanadu Olivia, with all the different outfits she had in that film. Some were even on roller skates. But too many people said they'd never seen the movie. And as for the ones who came as Eurovision Olivia, the one in the cake-like dress that got beaten by Abba in 1974… well, they were even more unhappy.
But me? I had the hairdo of "Physical" Video Olivia. Complete with the sweatband. And I was happy.
