Welcome back!

I got out of the house tonight, setting aside a paper on masculinity in the works of Kate Chopin in order to be social for awhile.

These are 27 to 35 year old former gutter punks, college DJs, and local band members. They would be townies if this wasn’t a city. They enjoy the newest hip dive bar with an undetached irony. I know the bartenders/owners and about half the people here. The fire marshall has the place rated for 67 occupants and there are at least 150 people crammed wall to wall.

The gimmick for the night is a Ramone’s cover band called the Whoremoans. There is a female lead singer and she isn’t trying to be sexy. Instead she plays the part totally straight and the effect is hot. In fact, none of the women at the bar are dressed in “Slutty ” costumes. One friend is a turd, another a stalk of broccoli (with cheese), and the real life Greaser couple is (you guessed it) dead Greasers.

The music isn’t sexy at all, it is dirty and loud and adolescent. That is what the Ramones are after all. And the mood doesn’t really take hold until people start spraying the band with beer.

There is no stage, but if there were one, my proximity would be front and center. I get nearly impaled with the neck of the bass a few times and bear the brunt of several misguided splashes of PBR. I don’t particularly give a shit because dancing is a bit too fun at the moment to watch out that my feet aren’t stepped on.

Gizmo wins the costume contest in a best out of 3 wrestling match against Master Shake. I hear an acquaintance who is in a sleazy garage rock band and no doubt a graphic designer by day, explain that Shake is “too fucking trendy and topical.”

It takes me a half hour to sign my tab for two drinks. I never think to bring cash on the busiest nights at a place like this. Nonetheless, I’ve only said hello to a fraction of the people, so my wait at the bar is a good chance to make small talk and oggle clever costumes before heading home.

Believe it or not, this makes me horny.