based on a true story

I've always had a thing for shoulders and backs -- a certain fascination with watching skin, bone and muscle folding and unfolding in the simple act of reaching for a glass. I'm thinking of this while watching the bartender at TT's turn away from me as she puts my cash in the till. Beyond her, a band is playing, the warm-up act for Stars. My attention isn't on the band (they're competent but none too thrilling, like the musical equivalent of a grilled chicken breast sandwich ... on white bread). Instead I'm looking at the bartender's back, and my eyes trace from the tiny celtic tattoo centered between her shoulder blades, to the small valley that runs from her neck to her shoulder, to the tiny but defined deltoids where her arms join her torso. I've heard enough guys sing the praises of summer and tank tops, and tonight I'll join them in their chorus, but for different reasons.

And what of Stars? Stars were very good. They do that pseudo-Pet Shop Boys electropop thing fairly well -- somehow taking chill, cocktail style without the jetset pretentiousness that tends to dog most techno-mod acts. The lead singer tried to sum up their aesthetic sensibility when he said that they're like hippies except they dress better. I don't think that's the most appropriate metaphor for them, but I'll be indulgent and assume that I'm just missing something.