last night james and i ventured downtown. we met up with Roy, Scott and some random dude with shitty finger tattoos at The Brotherhood. we sit down with our beers and next thing i know Scott's ranting about gay men getting stuck in middle management. first off, i can count the number of gay men Scott knows even remotely well on one finger. and said gay man was sitting on the other side of me for this particularly endearing rant.
"You're out of your element Donny"
god love the goofy son of a bitch, but he's got no frame of reference for any of his ridiculous claims. this is why we love Scott. he's simple. and endlessly entertaining. he just broke up with his girlfriend. he's living in our friends' garage with no heat and spiders. he's drunk.
by my next beer the conversation turns, as it is wont to do when james and i are involved, to sex. before we got there Roy, Scott and Tattoo-fingers-McGee had been engaged in serious science-based discourse. personally, i think they're suspect. then again, they are science guys... *shudder* Roy attributed the "degeneration" of topics to us. we're totally okay with that. next thing i know Scott's carrying on about anal sex and Tattoo-fingers-McGee imparts a glimmering gem of wisdom which i will carry with me all my days: "You never have anal sex with a girl for the first time. If you do it a second time, you'll know." brilliant. i love this sentiment, not because it's true, but because it was a concept the Scott could not get his mind around.
anyhow, we finish our beers and head down 4th ave to The China Clipper, aka The Crippler. why? cause it's dark, shady and they've got Jaeger on tap. outstanding. we grab a table, i get a beer. james switches to whiskey. whitesnake comes over the speakers. white fucking snake.
Here I go again on my own, going down the only road I've ever known. Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone. And I made up my mind. I aint wastin' no more time. So here I go again.
and for some reason, unbeknownst to those capable of rational thought - this pitches Scott into a rant about cats. i shit you not. and when i say rant, i mean, pounding his fist on the table in utter outrage whilst yelling about the importance of spaying/neutering cats. he has officially caused a scene. Tattoo-fingers-McGee bolts, never to be heard from again. a guy from our room mate Ryan's band is at the next table, a table full of people staring at Scott. james, Roy and i tip our drinks to them and i lean in behind Scott, point at him and call over "Cats. He's yelling about cats." priceless. it was around then that The Rule was instituted: Scott was to drink only water and not puke anywhere in the bar. strange rule? out of the 7 bars downtown, Scott has puked in 5 of them. and not in the bathroom.
so, the whole reason we're at The Crippler is that The Blow is playing. i've got one of her CDs. i like it enough. so why not? the guy who opens... there are no words. let me say that seeing him on stage made me realize that i have a social obligation to start a shitty punk band. today. he made noises. he geeked out. one might say, he was in fact, a spaz. it involved a computer. it made me hurt. there was an addendum to The Rule; Scott could puke... but only on that guy.
we sit through that. we watch girls wearing dresses over pants gyrate and "dance" to Atari sound effects. this is why oly sucks. don't think for yourself... no, no watch someone you deem cooler than yourself and just copy their reaction. they must be right. The Blow performs; i still like her well enough. the place basically clears out after that. the last band is from LA. they start to play. Roy leaves. Scott left sometime during Space Invaders-a-go-go. the last band... is good.
james and i are feeling it. we're up at the stage. no one else is moving, on account of they're dead inside and can't appreciate actual people holding actual instruments and playing them... well. after their set we go to say hi and explain why the crowd was so lame. turns out they're great guys & they have no place to stay. our house is huge.
we went out, got drunk and came home with a band.
it was a good night. those guys are Something for Rockets. people should check them out. they're good people.
james & i named our band today while questing for McDonald's to cure our hangovers. our new, pointedly shitty punk band shall be known as: Matty Likes Pancakes.
and our friend in Mind Your Pig, Latoya (great oly band) says we can open for them anytime. get ready world.
why Matty Likes Pancakes?
because he does.