I understand her pianostripper passions. We all share them. Those of us who have seen his nineteen seconds of special damp magic do anyway. But I'm not sure I want to know about the piano stripper. I think his magic is encapsulated by his mystery. An unattainable pianostripping entity that offers no answers, no promises. Hell, he doesn't even offer any questions. He simply is.
And his phenomenon is real. Today there was a band at lunch time in front of the student center. It drew my attention, naturally. I stood off to the side, quietly judging them the way that people on stage like to be judged.
Before long, another student joined me. He was seemingly well groomed, but smelled of feet. We watched the band barely acknowledging each other. Occasionally one of us would tap a toe or two, but never both at once, as this would have been altogether too familiar.
In the middle of a song about drug use and "pussy licking" the tambourine girl, began clapping above her head. She sang "Say Ooh!/La La!/Say one two three four!" My head popped up instantly. My companion began looking at his fingernails. I knew he knew.
The band broke into the pianostripper theme. At the end of the second phrase, I doubled over for a second as if in pain because I'd been kicked in my nethers. My companion looked over at me, and for the first time our eyes met and locked, and at the end of the third phrase we both yelled "Go!" simultaneously.
The connection forged was very intimate, disquietingly so. As the band finished the pianostripper riff and moved back into the primary theme of the number, I backed away from my companion and hurried into the student center. He took off equally as quickly in the opposite direction.
I suppose it was a little too close. A little too intimate. The pianostripper phenomenon takes us all by the scrotum and leads us in surprising directions. However, in the end, I suppose it's probably too much to ask for a lasting connection to be forged upon the common language of Barry's enormous flacid rod, no matter how musical it is.
But just because the connection isn't lasting, doesn't mean it isn't real. And that's what I'm afraid we'd lose if we found out that Barry's stage name is Liber Crotchy and he works Daughters of the Revolutionary War after parties out of Des Moines. That's the dangerous game Peth is playing.
Posted at 3:43 p.m.
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