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One night, I carried two crates of records down the stairs of a polished bar to its gritty, unfinished basement.
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He probably greets children with a three-pump business handshake and addresses dogs by their surnames.
Looking out over the now sparse crowd of people in various states of dress, I asked him, "Random night, huh?
All the performing acts—punk rock clowns, genderfuck burlesque, a radical anarchist grindcore band, a noise wizard—hailed from either the punk house where she lived or the dungeon where she worked.
The theme was Prohibition, and everyone arrived in their own kind of dressed up: leather and lace or ball gowns and ball gags. The regular stages of a mild acid trip played out: I wondered if I'd taken a dud; I was a little relieved it was a dud; I was sweating through my clothes because it definitely was not a dud.
So maybe he was just trying to tell everyone that he got his freak on a lot as a college hoops star. While waiting to see what happens with this year's March Madness outside of the illustrated bedroom, head to our midseason premiere schedule to see what's coming to the small screen soon.
Two men (Fred Armisen, Tom Brady) learn it's better to be attractive than unattractive when interacting with female coworkers (Tina Fey, Amy Poehler) in this parody of classic informational public service announcements.
Because it was a "friend gig" and not a "money gig," everyone wanted to take care of me. I saw color trails and had a completely mundane existential crisis. The band's song titles were longer than the songs themselves, and the performers relished announcing them.
I received a bottomless glass of wine and tabs of acid on arrival. I felt like I would be able to remain in control as long as I had a job to do: lift the needle up, put the record down, find my song, and repeat until the next act was ready. A skinny clown with a pink mohawk did the alternative circus geek thing with machetes, skin stretching and piercing, and utilizing chains and power tools.
There was a lot of frenzied sex energy, a lot of grabby hands, and absolutely no stopping to ask for consent.
I looked at the stage manager, the least emotionally wrought but most frazzled member of the group throughout the performance.
A suited man sniffed the glass, swished it in his mouth and downed it like a connoisseur. My friends' burlesque troupe was set to perform that night. Sometimes they'd be what you'd expect from a regular punk burlesque troupe: bawdy Vaudeville and classy tease, albeit rough around the edges and transgressive in a John Waters way (present-day John Waters that is, where he's a national treasure, like Betty White).