Saw the neo-punk, pop confabulation called Marla Hooch last Friday (which will be the last social thing I do until the end of October, ahem) at a tiny space in the Lower East Side (no, lower than that, and East-er too, you know, where they don't speak english) called Bar 169, a place whose inhabitants don't know that the 80's are over. Well, some of the young'uns are wearing the style for the first time, unironically, and all the guys there, mostly my age it looked like, prolly never grew out of it. It was fun. I was trying something new, a vanilla vodka with tonic on the rocks with a twist of lime. Even that felt '80s. Below, is my ode to the evening, a poem made up of the only things I could hear while the music was playing:
The only boobies I saw were his mother's.
Didn't know you masturbated.
Where are all the pornos going?
I wanna see your boobies.
This one's for Brooklyn.
Lose your virginity.
Drink Drink Drink
Don't you wish your girlfriend smoked crack like me?
Don't you wish your girlfriend was gay like me?
This is a love song.
This song's for Harlem.
This song's for Collin.
You're lucky to have one.
We're going to a gay bar.
I wish I could be famous
[sumpin sumpin sumpin] selling out like Uranus.
It's good to be alive - where's Daisy? Losin' sleep now.
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