"I'm not betting on the afterlife." - Jenny Lewis, The Big Guns [go buy Rilo Kiley's More Adventurous]
How can I not drink, get home relatively early, not get caught up in any drama, avoid getting caught in the background of some random Paparazzi photo looking stupid, and still wake up feeling like absolute ass?
Somehow I think I've turned some odd corner where in order to ward off the evil cooties of c-list celebrities and their hangers-on I must embalm myself with vodka. Otherwise, I'm sitting here at home in my comfortable makeshift pajamas (basketball shorts and a pink godzilla sushi tee) attempting to eat some oranges and some soup and cursing this wicked headache and it's unfriendly cousin, the stomach churn.
It's official, 80s Night is the place to be on Mondays. Two weeks ago, we had the run of the place. This week, we're pushing our way around girls in ultra mini-skirts and the c-list celebrities they want to get the attention of. I love it anyway because, really, where else am I going to go on Mondays? You could stand on the balcony listening to people discuss how they were on exstacy and how some creepy old man grabbed their boobs all while watching the steady stream of pretty and sexy walk from the bitter club rival over to our locale.
The best person to make that transition last night was the father of Trip-hop, Tricky. The doormen didn't know who he was. They denied him access. A friend of his stood with us as we watched it go down. "They aren't going to let him in," he asked, the sweat and X pouring out of him. "They don't know Tricky, man. You're going to have to go get him," I offered.
As if that was the most brilliant thing anyone had ever said, he rushed down the stairs wiping the sweat from his brow with his handy arm band and got a musical master in da club.
As Tricky walked by and nodded, I turned to my friends and announced that I'm dubbing the end of 2004 "The Winter of Mo". "Mohawks, motorcycles, mo-hair. We're doing it up like Tricky. He dated Bjõrk. I need that kind of juice."
I'm not sure they believed me. I don't know that I believe it myself. This awful bellyache is trying to convince me that I shouldn't be Mo' Adventurous on Monday nights.