logo by chick

There's something about a seedy punk rock club in the city in the summer on a Thursday night. The way the crowd is packed in and yet everyone is friendly and in good spirits. The familiar smell of sweat and beer and smoke. The way the guys are all decked out in leather and studs and chains. The way the girls are all decked out in leather and studs and chains. The way the singer screams the lyrics so you can't understand him and yet everyone in the audience is singing along. The way the guitarist jumps up and down and you worry that if he jumps any higher he'll hit his head on the low ceiling. The way some guy bumps into you and you feel a huge splash of his sweat douse you as if you just walked under a sprinkler. The way the bartender recognizes you and hands you your bottle of Bass Ale before you can even ask for it. The way you leave her a good tip partly because she recognized you and partly because she's so damn hot that you'd probably leave her a good tip anyway even if she didn't recognize you. The way she smiles and winks at you because she knows you always leave her a good tip. The way the girl with the fake red hair, the see-through white tank top, the black bra, and the low-rise denim capris looks so unbelieveably fuckable and yet she refuses to make eye contact with you. The way the girl leaning against the wall in the tight white t-shirt with the big black under-21 "X" stamp on her wrist keeps smiling at you every time you glance over at her. The way the girls who smile at you always seem to be the ones who are way to young for you. The way the other girl with the 1960's scientist glasses would look so hot if she just took those damn glasses off. The way she somehow looks even hotter with them on.

The way, after getting home, you look at your watch and realize it's freaking 2:16am and you better stop blogging and get the hell to bed.