Monday, June 13, 2005
Thursday Night Sauce Club
I don't subscribe to premium channels, but I am now marginally aware that HBO broadcasts a program called Entourage in which a bunch of leeches and starfuckers cling to a moderately famous person. These fawning whores help the fleetingly famous fuckface spend his money while they stroke his ego and absorb the leftover alcohol and attention.
To promote this stylish splash in the shallow end of the pool, HBO is encouraging people in major metropolitan centers such as New York, LA, Chicago, and Denver to get some free shit. They're handing out membership cards complete with pin numbers and signature strips. Take this, they command, strut into posh bistros, flash your card, and collect free swag like a real Hollywood star with an inflated head and a tight ass. (I'm not even sure what bistros are, but I think they're related to boutiques)
Last week, Chicagoans were encouraged to get a neck shave at some expensive hotel barber. My last haircut was on my birthday, nearly three months ago. My sideburns are Elvisesque and my pompadour is regal in splendor. Why ruin a good thing in an expensive manner? The very notion is a dual vulgarity. Therefore, I will decline to waltz into a posh buzz joint for a free neck shave and a $70 haircut. Nice marketing ploy. I'll stick to my usual discount routine and stick my head into an industrial air conditioning fan when it gets too long. The whiplash doubles as my chiropractor.
Next I was encouraged to take part in the upscale nightclub revelry of the rich and vacant. Go, they said, and drink free Absolut drinks from 9pm-12am at the Bungalow Lounge on Belmont. Well, okay. I like alcohol. How bad could this be?
My former roomie got there first with his black Entourage card. He was awarded a VIP booth and a $50 bottle of vodka for his punctuality. Not bad. I arrived later and was unsurprised to discover that I'd underdressed for the venue. The other customers wore socks that cost more than my entire wardrobe put together. Unfortunately that's not saying much, since my clothes are ragged, faded, decrepit, and old. I spend my money on car repairs and illegal drugs. I never was one for presentation, and perhaps that fuels my disdain for the extremely hip and vouger than thou crowd inhabiting this vapid den of earnest elegance. After an hour of bland jazz-hop, abstract art created by a colorblind geometry major, and upturned silk collars, I departed with my troop of lazy unemployed beatniks to a habitat more appropriate to our kind, Sheffield's. Drinks would ring up at well under $6 here. Can I get an amen and hallelujah?
Sheffiled's was packed with my kind of people. I went straight for the beer garden in back. There was no shiny clothing, few with shiny hair, dirty t-shirts, slouched postures, picnic benches, tall trees, plenty of sandals, and lots of laughter. This was a vast contrast from the refined murmuring and svelte posing within the Bungalow Lounge. I drank, I rejoiced, and I made merry with my boisterous companions. Much better.2:05 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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