Disclaimer HomeDisclaimer Music Review ArchiveThe Airbag's Lipstick KissLyricsWillie's Off-Brand Web JournalPressFrequently Asked Qs. Get As!Desiccant Records: Do Not Eat!


Willie's Off-Brand Web Journal: October 5-October 11, 2003

Wednesday, October 8, 2003:

JON: "Kurt Loder is creepy. I can totally see him whispering to some girl, 'Can I touch your boob?'"

If anyone out there has copies of the final four seasons of Oz (seasons three through six: the seasons that aren't yet available on DVD), and would be willing to make copies for me, please e-mail me and let me know. I need to know what happens!

CURRENT MOOD: Frustrated.
IS THERE ANYONE, ANYWHERE, WHO THINKS GEORGE LOPEZ IS FUNNY?
No.
TIME:
8:00 PM.

Doot? | |

Sunday, October 5, 2003:

Before I start, I know Marco Ursi has already pretty much said everything that needs to be said about why the club scene sucks in his journal (find the August 2 entry), but redundancy has never stopped me before.

Lorenzo, Aimee, Erica, Erica's boyfriend Hugh, and I went to Windsor last night to do some drinkin'. Which, in and of itself, was a fine idea, because I enjoy drinking with my friends: they're fun people to begin with, and become increasingly hilarious the more they (and I) have had to drink. However, what I always forget on these little trips across the Canadian border (Lorenzo and Erica are both too young to legally drink in the United States) is that we generally wind up going to clubs and bars that are much too noisy and crowded and full of sensory overload-inducing bad music to allow for any sort of socializing among us. And as I do not dance under the best of circumstances- and especially not to generic trance music or 50 Cent- I usually wind up becoming extremely taciturn and pressing myself against the wall in an attempt to make myself invisible, as my friends bounce merrily around the dance floor or chat with strangers. Oh yeah- chatting with strangers is another activity I refuse to partake of. A stranger is just an enemy who doesn't yet have a specific reason to hate you.

After spending two hours finding our way around Windsor and bickering with one another (LORENZO: "You guys realize that I'm on E as you're making me drive all over the place, right?" ME: "That would explain your method of driving." AIMEE: "He's talking about his fuel gauge, Chris."), we wound up at Dean Martini's. The fun began when the bouncers gave me shit about what I was wearing before they'd allow me to pay the five dollar cover charge. My tennis shoes were the specific point of contention, which struck me as odd, because I was also wearing the reflective and intentionally tasteless Waste Management uniform I'd purchased in New York. So anyway, I got to be self-conscious about my shoes for the remainder of our stay there.

Inside, I had an apple martini, and I can totally see why Carson Kressley likes them: it was yummy. However, I suspect that there's more alcohol in the fumes given off by a Swiffer WetJet than in that drink, so it wasn't really worth the seven Canadian dollars I paid for it. After a few more drinks, and some funny, Elaine Benes-esque dancing by Hugh, Lorenzo, and Aimee, whose collective lack of inhibitions I totally admire, we left.

Then we went to a place called Woody's, whose clientele seemed somewhat less pretentious and image-conscious than Dean Martini's, though still unlikely to engage in any conversations that didn't boil down to the following statements:
·"She is hot."
·"Dude, I am so fucked up right now."
·"Woo."

I really didn't have too bad a time there, because the place had a nice, casual vibe about it. Some guy complimented me on my Waste Management outfit, they played the new Outkast single, the drinks were affordable, the staff was friendly... all good things. But at one point, I noticed that one of the TVs by the bar was playing an old X-Files episode, and I realized how much more I would rather be sitting at home watching that than wasting my time watching a bunch of drunk college kids freak each other on the dance floor. It's not like I was making much of an effort to have fun, admittedly, because I'm a huge sourball, but it didn't seem possible to make a real human connection in there anyway.

There was a young woman there wearing a black veil and a homemade shirt that read, "I do... NOT!" She was gyrating wildly on the dance platform, and the DJ announced that she was supposed to have gotten married that morning, but she called it off, which got an enthusiastic cheer from the crowd. She had an entourage of roughly 20 girls along with her, all of whom were wearing white tank tops that had their names on the back and inexplicable acronyms on the front, which I assume were insults about the would-be groom. ("WAO," for instance, I took to stand for "What An..." something. Couldn't think of any derogatory terms that began with O.) However, Aimee talked to the girl and some members of her party and got the impression that the groom himself was the one who'd pulled out of the wedding, which tinged the entire event with a certain put-on-a-happy-face hopelessness, in my eyes. I remembered a nice, cynical quotation I'd once read about the miserable subtext of parties and social get-togethers: "People generally don't drink themselves into a stupor out of happiness with their current situation."

We stayed there a few hours, until Aimee got cut off from drinking any more. (Amusingly, Aimee wasn't even trying to order another drink. A waitress just approached her and informed her that she'd been cut off. Aimee doesn't get obnoxious when she's drunk, but she does become very gregarious, so I'd love to know what she did to prompt this action.) As we were leaving, some girl grabbed me by the arm and introduced me to all her friends as her new boyfriend. I shook their hands and she planted a big, wet kiss on my cheek. I chose to be flattered by that, and not take it as a She's All That-style joke, where the ugliest person in the place is targeted for attention.

After we staggered out into the night air, we had to stop at a sidewalk hot dog vendor so Lorenzo, Hugh, and Erica could get something to eat. Erica feebly protested that she was a vegetarian before scarfing down half of Hugh's dog. Whatever- I guess a night of hard drinking produces certain cravings in your body that only a tube of hog anus purchased on the street can satisfy.

So basically, as much as I love my friends, next time I probably won't go, and you won't have to hear about it. Clubbing brings out my worst tendencies toward misanthropy and self-loathing, it seems.

CURRENT MUSIC: Wrong-Eyed Jesus! by Jim White.
CURRENT MOOD:
Trite.
MY BROTHER'S HILARIOUS ASSESSMENT OF THE PACKERS-CARDINALS GAME FROM A FEW WEEKS AGO:
"That may have been the biggest display of bumblefuckery that I've ever seen."
TIME:
4:42 PM.

Doot? | |

PAST JOURNAL ENTRIES: May 3, 2003-May 9, 2003. May 10, 2003-May 16, 2003. May 17-May 24, 2003. May 25-May 31, 2003. June 1-June 7, 2003. June 8-June 13, 2003. June 14-June 21, 2003. June 22-July 1, 2003. July 2-July 13, 2003. July 14-July 20, 2003. July 21-July 26, 2003. July 27-August 4, 2003. August 5-August 9, 2003. August 10-August 16, 2003. August 17-August 23, 2003. August 24-August 30, 2003. August 31-September 6, 2003. September 7-September 13, 2003. September 14-September 20, 2003. September 21-September 29, 2003. September 30-October 4, 2003.


BACK TO DISCLAIMER HOME