june 28 2000
yeah, so listen. sorry about yesterday. i know you were expecting to come read some big words and run-on sentences or about how other people piss me off or about my penchant for amputee porn, but sometimes things just gotta get done. but for those of you who told me to "stop whining already" and "start giving me what i came here for," i can only smile coyly and offer up, in my own inimitable way, the events of last night, which included uncle tiny, my new favorite person in the entire universe. well, even if he's not, he's allllllright. go tiny, go tiny, it's yo' birthday, go tiny.
see, yesterday was my girl bahia's birthday. not her uncle's. yes, uncle tiny really is an uncle. and he's tiny! but more on that later. bahia is my partner in shopping for 
kicks, as well as a soul sister of the first degree. if she has a party, it's going to be the kind of function where rudy ray moore is the bouncer and you can find don cornelius dancing with chaka khan as antonio fargas gets good and drunk in the corner. some across 110th street stuff, for real. so she decides to have her party down in soho (for you non-new yorkers, soho is like if you gathered together everyone with ill-gotten money and took away most of their good qualities, then gave them really expensive trendy wardrobes), which, while certainly a locus for the attractive, doesn't seem like a bahia-party kind of place, but then again, who am i to judge. it's the woman's birthday, let her do what she wants.
turns out she knew what she was doing. pj and i walk into the spot, which is basically a bar with a little extra floor space for the party people to shake that, uh, moneymaker, and it's like stepping into an en vogue video, except there are twelve different versions of en vogue, each better looking than the last. it's something borges should have written about, believe you me. reiteratively escalating pulchritude. pj and i grab beers and stand against the wall and silently marvel at the cavalcade of nubility slithering and a-gyratin', and eventually get around to minglin', baby (go 'head, baby). and, once the reggae comes on, dancing. and then, in comes uncle tiny.
uncle tiny is a 5'4 dynamo of love. he rolls up in the place wearing a pink shirt and white pants, with a pink argyle sweater draped over his shoulders. argyle. and it was pink. he looked like he was about to give theo a good talking-to for forgetting to pick up rudy at the mall. he was dancing with bahia's mom, who herself was getting completely and utterly loose to a tribe called quest. uncle tiny's mode of dancing was deceptively simple, especially considering the ensuing synergy of badness that resulted. the uncle tiny dance consisted of a) ball your tiny hands into loose tiny fists, b) bend your tiny arms so your tiny fists hover somewhere around your tiny shoulders and armpits, c) press your lips together, d) sway rhythmically, e) shuffle your tiny feet, and f) wait for the females to swoon. uncle tiny had it going on like a perpetual motion machine. go 'head, uncle tiny.
if you've noticed, i can't stop saying his name.
to recap: slithering cavalcade of nubility. synergy of badness. thank you.
p.
and yo. my full-on venture kneejerk.net is up and running, though not nearly full. go and getcha read on. for me.
props to darkcounter.com
and sitemeter