Social Whore
Hi, I’m Cory. Some people think I’m just a bum, but others think I’m the bomb! The truth lies somewhere between. I grew up about 20 minutes south of Portland, along the ancient banks of the Saco River, but on my father’s side I have Portland roots that go deep, so living in this city feels like a damn good fit.
After high school I jumped from place to place, and in 2005 I was living in New Orleans. Hurricane Katrina struck, so I Greyhounded my ass back to Maine, because despite my nomadic ways, Maine was always home base. While waiting to see when I could scoot back down to New Orleans, I was working for my brother-in-law, hanging vinyl siding, when I fell 30 feet from a ladder. I was in a coma for a few months, and during that time the tendons on my right ankle atrophied from lack of use and gave my foot a vicious curl that condemns me to a wheelchair. Also, the brain injury affected the coordination of my glottal muscles, so I talk like a drunken cartoon character.
Although I’ve always been a smart ass, before the fall I was constrained by my inherent shyness, which kept my mischievousness in check. But with my brain-injured lack of borders, I feel free to tear down the shrouds that most other folks hide their crimes behind. The brain injury has also turned me into a social whore. I believe a demonstration is in order:
On Sunday, May 14, I got a Facebook message from my friend Reggie Groff about the prospect of playing some chess. We usually meet at Coffee By Design on Congress, but they close early on Sundays, so we met at the new Chinese place, Sichuan Kitchen, a few doors down. I got an opportunity to showcase both my gluttony and my ineptitude at chess. The tofu dish I had was well prepared and overpriced, but it came with jasmine tea, which can soothe any hurt feelings.
After that, I went to Aura to see the Chicago rapper Lupe Fiasco. I’m an impoverished bastard, but a few weeks prior I scored some free tickets at Rap Night. This was my first time on the newly refurbished killing floor of Aura (formerly Asylum). The design and décor of the room made me feel like I was on the set of American Gladiator. I half expected to see spandex-clad steroid cases swinging from the rafters. The view from my wheelchair was, unfortunately, obstructed, so I hoisted myself up to the mezzanine.
I got a better view, alright! Between me and the stage was a distractingly attractive girl whose wardrobe was cut to meet a minimalist aesthetic. I admired the uncommon courtesy of her righteously ripe bum until, in a fit of courtesy, she insisted that the poor wheelchair kid take the spot in front of her to get a clear sight-line to the stage.
The energy was over the top. The show ended on the early side, around 10 p.m., but I was so primed that I headed to Flask Lounge to quench my libido. I’m a sober curmudgeon, but I enjoy the loosening of the noose of social rules that Flask Lounge encourages. The bar’s ordinarily gloomy little room was alive with the vibe of sexual potential. The spray of light beams made the walls look like cave paintings by Seurat, but the libidinally aromatic air conveyed a very different impression. The manic terror of trap music complemented this fleshy spasticity, lifting everyone to a state of transcendence.
Having been a happy nerd, this is not how I would have spent a Sunday night before my brain injury. Very often we use external inconveniences as an excuse for learned deficiencies, but it can also go the other way — setbacks can be the ultimate call to excellence. Remember to never neglect to look beyond life’s light show, because unlike Jiffy Pop, the struggle is real.
