Wednesday, July 20, 2005

The Trocadero Cafe

A huge muscular doorman with crewcut hair stands at the entrance. Oblivious to the cool shadows of the evening, unaware of the seedy surroundings of the street. He wears only a heavily starched white shirt under wide black suspenders, black serge razor-crease slacks and highly polished leather bankers. He is intimidation in black and white and hard edges. His grey eyes capable of transition between friendly greeting and steely stare.

I know a place on the other side of town
Some people go there just to play
Opens at night about half past ten an' never closes until dawn
You can get what you want at the Trocadero Cafe.

Midnight and gossip are the bill of fare
Ev'ryone dining with a view
Wear what you want but you can't get in unless you got your best dress on,
'cause you're part of the scene an' there's someone watching you too.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

I find it hard to believe that a door man would be oblivious to the world on the street.
I respect that you shape him with clothing, but I can't help but think that you lost him at that moment and yet, attempted to gather him back up by saying that he is quiet.
You're a man dancing on the fringe of experience and might I suggest not as a function of your true reality.
So many actors and writers write as if they are thinking of the person who is reading their work.
Fuck them,
Don't speak to the reader as your write, simply tell good stories.
Which I suggest you have the depth for.
Just a thought.

1:45 a.m.  

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