True story. Mostly.
Me and a bunch of friends met up at a bar in the West Village called Fiddlesticks a few weeks back [I know what you’re thinking: West Village, Fiddlesticks, we know what kind of bar THAT is – not that there’s anything wrong with it. And you’re right of course: it was lousy with the Irish].
So we’re all busy getting our tipsy on and making merry, as the season warrants, when a block of unabashed, unapologetic 80’s music finds its way on to the bar’s playlist. Swept up by the synthy majesty, my brother [yes, I include family in my list of friends because, well, the list would otherwise be pathetically anemic] and my friend Neil [not related to the best of my knowledge] start swinging their arms back and forth and gyrating their lower extremeties in an exaggerated 80’s dance [think Boy George, only more flamboyant].
It was a real crowd pleaser – at least to us – although there was palpable hostility bubbling up from some of the other patrons, and had it gone on too long, I imagine we might have had one of those bar stool bashing Hollywood bar fights on our hands.
But then, right after the dancing duos’ arms tired out, forcing them to cease prancing about and dab at the sweat forming on their respective brows, the goodly bar wench came over and tapped my brother on the shoulder, leaned in and said something to him that I couldn’t quite make out above the din.
After relaying her message, she pointed across the bar to some middle aged dude with a receding hairline grinning ear to ear, staring at my brother and doing his own rendition of the same 80’s dance. It was awful, forced and the spectacle of it all caused an uncomfortable feeling to rise in the pit of my gullet.
My brother – feeling compassionate [he’s better than me] and in an attempt to ameliorate the uncouthness of the whole situation – made a go at reciprocating the dance moves from across the room. But his compassion has limits [sort of like a centrist Democrat] and you could tell his heart wasn’t really in it. As the two dancers – separated by the rest of the room – locked eyes and carried on their long distance choreography (one with unbridled enthusiasm, the other with a perfunctory politeness), the awkwardness was increasing in intensity, not waning, as awkwardness is wont to do in such circumstances.
So in an attempt to disentangle himself from this uninvited and undesired coupling, my brother performed the kinetic version of trailing off mid sentence, offered a nod, a smile and then turned around to grope his pint.
Glancing back nervously at the dance-stalker, my brother said, “Hey, he kind of looks like Kiefer Sutherland.” And without really looking myself [my brother is blind as a bat and prone to exaggerate], I’m all, “Yeah, he totally does. Haha” [kind of laugh you offer ROFLMAO Richard Cohen out of pity, which has led to a profound self-misoverestimation, but that’s another story].
Later I went out to have a smoke take in the night air because I totally don’t smoke cigarettes [shhh, my mom could be reading this. She loves this blog. Mom says: “I like it when The Editors does the kitten porn! But does he have to be so mean to that Jonah Goldberg man. You shouldn’t pick on the mentally handicapped.” And I respond: “It is the task that God assigned The Editors mom. He is a reluctant warrior.” But lucky for me she won’t read anything in brackets or italics – it has something to do with the Pope warning that literary asides are as much a threat to humanity as global warming, which doesn’t exist because Ron Burgundy said so. Or something. I’m terrible with the theology stuff].
So where was I? Oh yeah, outside for an invigorating bit of NYC air, I look over and see the creepy dance stalker guy and…it’s fucking Kiefer Sutherland. Without a doubt. In the flesh. Smoking a fucking cigarette as if he just had coitus. With my brother. In a sense.
I’ll say this about the man, though, despite his filthy smoking habit, the guy is all class: he actually came up to my brother and apologized for intruding on his night, which is totally the right thing to do, if a bit too little too late. More appropriately, he could make it up to him by turning my brother into a rich and famous movie star, like, overnight. I’m betting Kiefer [yeah, we’re on a first name basis now – that’s how we roll bitchez] is working on it.
He’s that awesome.
… THE EDITORS adds: Keifer’s dance moves, artist’s recreation –
Audience reaction, artist’s recreation: