Out in San Jose
The Usual reminded me tonight of why I hated the soulless pathetic pansy-boy bullshit they urinated into mainstream music in the mid-80s—new wave. Why I paid five bucks to get in, I have no idea.
I spent fifteen minutes there (I had a blast last time on funk/house/disco night). I headed across the street to the agenda.
“What music is playing in the cellar tonight?” I asked the doorman.
“Top 40 house,” came the gruff reply.
I hesitated, grimacing. Top 40 house? What is the world coming to? Ah, well. I went downstairs. There were better tunes to dance to than at The Usual, but it was a strange bastille prison-cell sort of venue, another place that had twice or three times as many patrons as would normally be allowed. Most of them were at the bar. I ended up dancing near three cute women, who started grinding on me. By the time the lights came on, I was quite tired of them. I left without any other words than “thanks for the dance.”
Remind me to not go to clubs with cute women anymore. They make me question my resolve.