Club Kid

Apparently my friend Jacquie thought it would be a great idea to drag me to a porn flick, thinly disguised as a British art film. That's right, tonight I sat through exactly 69 minutes of way-too-explicit sex scenes that were only augmented by concert footage of various scruffy indie rock acts. (By now you should know how I feel about scruffy indie rock acts.) The worst part of my 9 Songs experience, though, was that the skinny, shaggy-haired chick sitting next to me felt like it was OK to remove her shoes and expose our entire row to her hideously funky feet. Jac did her best to make a scene, but Smelly Socks refused to be shamed out of her no shoe policy.

From there, me and Jac went to a local pub to do a Club Kid review. (We somehow managed to hit an improv night that was actually funny.) Lately I have been dreading doing club reviews (a) because I have become a workaholic, tracksuit-wearing hermit and I don't appreciate having to get all tarted up and actually leave my apartment and (b) the gun violence in clubs here is out of control. My editor couldn't do much about the former, but he did promise to bring food to the hospital if the club got shot up.