A Certain Romance...
Well I was going to spend today’s blog explaining to all of you why I think Louis Vuitton is the new Birkenstock, but fate seemed to have different plans for me.
Mels and I went to the Arctic Monkeys’ show last night and it was lame as fuck fuck.
It started out so well. We began with drinks at the Factory. We were lucky enough to get a table. Service was remarkable. My server talked me out of the Seasonal, but gave me a sample just to show me what I was missing. Half our meal was comped. Just lovely.
Arrived at the show, and it was a sea of Ben Sherman, Track Jackets, and True Religion. Common just common. We moored ourselves onto one of the ample sofas on the rooftop patio. Enjoyed a few drinks during the opening band. Sad mix of The Cure and Buzzcocks. Just common. After the opening act, the sea of true religion consumed us, and for a while we were quite convinced that we might drown. A glimmer, a hint of hope came, when we both saw Randy on the Rocks out of the corner of our eyes, and I have to say that may have been the highlight.
We took our places at the foot of the balcony stairs, and we could have not been more pleased. We stood there for around 20 minutes. As soon as the introductory rap music started (who the fuck do these kids think they are, and where the fuck do they think they are? Two guesses, and it aint Lankenshire) some unsavory character came down and told us we had to move.
“Move where?” Mels asked
“Como tele vous?” I asked
“YOU HAVE TO LEAVE!!!” He screamed
It was a nightmare. Ironically, almost all of the Arctic Monkeys’ songs are about this very thing. We slunk back up the stairs. We found some seats on the balcony amongst a swath of deserted seats. Well well behind the velvet rope I might add. We sat for 30 seconds max when another unsavory bouncer came up behind us, and told us the seats were reserved.
I glanced at the hundred or so empty seats, and asked. “Reserved for whom? Pray tell?”
“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO GET UP?”
Mels face was shocked and sullen.
The man said something else. A fierce volley of saliva sprayed my face.
“Alright alright, say it don’t spray it dude.”
We got up, went to the patio, and watched most of the show from the bar on a projector screen. That sentence ends with a preposition, but don’t worry I don’t care. The bartender tried to convince us that there was plenty of space on the balcony, and we in turn tried to convince him that this venue was 8 kinds of lame.
We finished our drinks and went down onto the main floor and tried to convince any track suited yokel that would listen that what they were experiencing may in fact be the fifth level of hell.
“What you are standing in. No it isn’t urine. That be the river Styx that be.”
Mels and I enjoyed half a cigarette on the upstairs terrace where, believe it or not, we were told once again to leave. No smoking. I glanced at the empty terrace and asked the bouncer if he honestly thought anyone would mind. He was de fuckin lovely so he eventually got our utmost cooperation.
We closed the night with a slow dance to A Certain Romance, and called it a night we should really do more often.
And that is as they say that.
Henry Fonda Theater. Sucks in ways I have so ineloquently described.
Arctic Monkeys are I don’t know what the fuck they are.
Hollywood is apparently Cleveland in a glitzy disguise.
On a totally different and altogether disquieting note, the office pool I am a part of is a total nightmare. As you know my team name is mrsjeter. Well some hateful prat decided it would be just oh so clever to change his team name to YANKEES SUCK!!!! (emphasis not added). Cruel and hateful. Cruel and hateful.
Mels and I went to the Arctic Monkeys’ show last night and it was lame as fuck fuck.
It started out so well. We began with drinks at the Factory. We were lucky enough to get a table. Service was remarkable. My server talked me out of the Seasonal, but gave me a sample just to show me what I was missing. Half our meal was comped. Just lovely.
Arrived at the show, and it was a sea of Ben Sherman, Track Jackets, and True Religion. Common just common. We moored ourselves onto one of the ample sofas on the rooftop patio. Enjoyed a few drinks during the opening band. Sad mix of The Cure and Buzzcocks. Just common. After the opening act, the sea of true religion consumed us, and for a while we were quite convinced that we might drown. A glimmer, a hint of hope came, when we both saw Randy on the Rocks out of the corner of our eyes, and I have to say that may have been the highlight.
We took our places at the foot of the balcony stairs, and we could have not been more pleased. We stood there for around 20 minutes. As soon as the introductory rap music started (who the fuck do these kids think they are, and where the fuck do they think they are? Two guesses, and it aint Lankenshire) some unsavory character came down and told us we had to move.
“Move where?” Mels asked
“Como tele vous?” I asked
“YOU HAVE TO LEAVE!!!” He screamed
It was a nightmare. Ironically, almost all of the Arctic Monkeys’ songs are about this very thing. We slunk back up the stairs. We found some seats on the balcony amongst a swath of deserted seats. Well well behind the velvet rope I might add. We sat for 30 seconds max when another unsavory bouncer came up behind us, and told us the seats were reserved.
I glanced at the hundred or so empty seats, and asked. “Reserved for whom? Pray tell?”
“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO GET UP?”
Mels face was shocked and sullen.
The man said something else. A fierce volley of saliva sprayed my face.
“Alright alright, say it don’t spray it dude.”
We got up, went to the patio, and watched most of the show from the bar on a projector screen. That sentence ends with a preposition, but don’t worry I don’t care. The bartender tried to convince us that there was plenty of space on the balcony, and we in turn tried to convince him that this venue was 8 kinds of lame.
We finished our drinks and went down onto the main floor and tried to convince any track suited yokel that would listen that what they were experiencing may in fact be the fifth level of hell.
“What you are standing in. No it isn’t urine. That be the river Styx that be.”
Mels and I enjoyed half a cigarette on the upstairs terrace where, believe it or not, we were told once again to leave. No smoking. I glanced at the empty terrace and asked the bouncer if he honestly thought anyone would mind. He was de fuckin lovely so he eventually got our utmost cooperation.
We closed the night with a slow dance to A Certain Romance, and called it a night we should really do more often.
And that is as they say that.
Henry Fonda Theater. Sucks in ways I have so ineloquently described.
Arctic Monkeys are I don’t know what the fuck they are.
Hollywood is apparently Cleveland in a glitzy disguise.
On a totally different and altogether disquieting note, the office pool I am a part of is a total nightmare. As you know my team name is mrsjeter. Well some hateful prat decided it would be just oh so clever to change his team name to YANKEES SUCK!!!! (emphasis not added). Cruel and hateful. Cruel and hateful.
posted by //JRB:j @ Thursday, March 16, 2006
2 Comments:
At 3:32 PM ,
Rotten Little Pony said...
I think you meant to write "Rodney on the ROQ." Although I much prefer "Randy on the Rocks." Sounds like a dirty cocktail -"I'll have the usual - a Randy on the Rocks." I'm so ordering that tomorrow night.
P.S. I hate the Arctic Monkeys!!!!
At 4:35 PM ,
//JRB:j said...
Yeah, that's a typo I'm gonna leave in.
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