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High Falutin’
Well kids, we have some advice for ya, be careful what you wish for! We stomped around all summer complaining that there wasn’t enough to do, then whammo, September’s calendar filled up with night after night of happenings. But guess what? It all sucked. We’re just shaking our heads in review. The past couple of weeks were glorious for those of the big-pants, fake-dread, pizza-face ilk; however, we spent our weekends bowling. (Homer’s onto something, drinking without the guilt because you’re doing sports at the same time).
Here’s some fun word association that pertains to our dismal month so far:
Puddin’ Hogs - makes you think of Bill Cosby, which makes you think of Lisa Bonet, and she was cool, but whatever happened to her?
Sting - Who cares if he can do it for two years straight while in the lotus position, with Nag Champa sticking out of his ass. We only like him with the Police.
Nickelback and Full Devil Jacket – what, do they live in Pinellas Park now?
Finger Eleven - that name is just gross.
Jimmy Page - canceled. He was trying to heave his double-neck guitar over his arthritic shoulder when he slipped a disc. So can’t The Cult still play? Maybe we can pull some strings and have them play at the Emerald (no cover of course).
The one bright spot so far has been Darrin’s sweet 16 birthday party at the State Theatre (for the two of you that don’t know him, Darrin is the humble, lovable EMD label rep). Man, those Virgos can really whoop it up, and as an astrological bonus have the place spotless the next day (at least the liquor cabinet anyway). Celebrating (a nice way of putting “drinking the bar dry”) were Darrin’s closest friends, Leighann, Steve, Rachel, newly-svelte Rob W, Debbie from Universal, Manny - kool daddy, “Capt. Sensible” Matt, Mark and Annie, Britney Spears, and Adam Beatings, looking very Keith Richards circa ‘73, plus a slew of record industry big-wigs who shall remain nameless out of respect for their privacy, like David Geffen. To really show off his clout, Darrin charmed the area’s best bands to keep the party rockin. Car Bomb Driver delivered a blazin’ set that had the kids in the balcony hollering for more. Then the Cocktail Honeys showed everyone why they’re Number One on the CMJ charts. As a special treat, Darrin himself joined the Honeys to belt out ‘Never Say Never’ (we’re surprised that you remembered the lyrics at that age, must be the ginko biloba) and ‘Kids In America’. Funny how he picked songs that girls sing, but he fit in just like the 4th Hanson. Greed Engine played in the coveted third slot; unfortunately, it was just when the lobby was really starting to happen. To cap off a delightful evening, Spiller made the hangover all worthwhile.
Keep up your bowling averages
oooooxxxxx Taffy and Cotton
Spiffy
Altamont Party this Sunday nite at Budious - Adam B. is back with everything from Alice Cooper to X.
Matt Simmons’ triumphant return to St. Pete, and the reunion of the Bastard Squad
Goth night Sundays at Club 1901 - Larry sez, “the music is good!”
Grandaddy - the band.
The mohawked Chili Peppers on the MTV awards.
Cumshotte featuring Kyle Astromaus - Sept 15 at the State
All the guys shopping at Watson’s Food Town looking like Eddie Vedder
Homemade root beer at the Diary Inn – floats=yummm
Surfingtheapocalypse.com -links to web sites you never knew you needed like the Alanis Morrisette Lyric Generator, For Sale By Mental Patient, Furniture Porn and many, many more
Cocktail Honeys’ foxy drummer trying hard to stay out of IFFY
Fornikulture - Sept 23 at the Emerald
Puka Beads and Lightning Bolts - back in style
IFFY
Resin charging a cover at the Emerald
Taking the “get down” at the get downtown party literally, by doing it in the alley behind the International museum. Thankfully it wasn’t anyone we knew.
Changing GTE to a stupid name like Verizon.
Relatives all over the US wanting to know if “they caught that shark yet?” Yeah, he’s at the pound now.
Cecil B. Demented only playing one night at Tampa Theater, then disappearing. Didn’t anyone know it was a John Waters movie?
MTV music awards, the worst one ever.
Getting Budweiser spilled on your Guatemalan hooded pullover at the Dave Matthews concert
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