For a Good Time Call 666
Tuesday nights are free drink night at the Back Booth, which is fast becoming a weekly ritual. Five bucks for all the wells and Miller High Life in the world. Good enough for me.
Last evening I sauntered up to the door girl with a five spot for the cover, and instead of the double B Back Booth logo, or the usual "21" marker scrawl, she wrote "666" in bright orange on my right hand. Though I'm not into Satan per se, I confess this had a sort of juvenile appeal to my rock and rollish tendencies. There was also the attractive danger element--if the apocalypse came while I was bearing the number of the beast, I'd be banished straight to Hell.
Which is what I thought happened when I was defeated by the Funky Trinity. The Funky Trinity are three large, early-30's douchebags with a record collection stolen from your local drug dealer. They somehow got a DJ job at an ostensibly indie/alternative club on Tuesdays until 11:00--which stretced until past 11:30 last night. The occasional Prince or Michael Jackson ditty couldn't overcome the myriad boring reggae numbers, generic booty beat downs, and the Humpty Hump. It sounded like a junior high dance. The truly appalling thing is that there are THREE of them with such poor taste.
The temptaton of free drinks brought me and my companions in, but make no mistake--we paid dearly for them. My very soul felt injured.
I scrubbed the 6's off my hand as soon as I got home.
Last evening I sauntered up to the door girl with a five spot for the cover, and instead of the double B Back Booth logo, or the usual "21" marker scrawl, she wrote "666" in bright orange on my right hand. Though I'm not into Satan per se, I confess this had a sort of juvenile appeal to my rock and rollish tendencies. There was also the attractive danger element--if the apocalypse came while I was bearing the number of the beast, I'd be banished straight to Hell.
Which is what I thought happened when I was defeated by the Funky Trinity. The Funky Trinity are three large, early-30's douchebags with a record collection stolen from your local drug dealer. They somehow got a DJ job at an ostensibly indie/alternative club on Tuesdays until 11:00--which stretced until past 11:30 last night. The occasional Prince or Michael Jackson ditty couldn't overcome the myriad boring reggae numbers, generic booty beat downs, and the Humpty Hump. It sounded like a junior high dance. The truly appalling thing is that there are THREE of them with such poor taste.
The temptaton of free drinks brought me and my companions in, but make no mistake--we paid dearly for them. My very soul felt injured.
I scrubbed the 6's off my hand as soon as I got home.