Hey dude, totally love your vintage Jawbreaker t-shirt. Weren't those on sale at Factory People last week for $95?

Saturday night George and I went to a birthday party for someone I don't even know at the Beauty Bar (my new most-hated bar) and the crowd was as if Urban Outfitters and Factory People copulated in an unholy union of carnal atrocities and gave birth to a 400-headed, black-clad retard known as The Strokes spilling drinks on itself and dancing to electroclash remixes of Dead or Alive ("Dude, it's so ironic!") while trying desperately to look like it's having the Best. Night. Ever. so it can have lots of hilarious pictures to post on its MySpace page so everyone who looks at it can think that person must be really popular, and, like, really, really crazy and fun! Ohmigod!

We met the Asian girl from Taiwan wearing only her underwear, way too much makeup and high heels. She kept interjecting the conversation with "meow, meow." As in, anytime there was a lull, or someone said something witty, she would say, "Meow, meow," the way that someone might say "Ho hum." Then we met her friend Rocco from Italy. I told him Rocco was one of my favorite names, and asked if he'd ever seen Rocco and His Brothers, and he replied, "Rocco Siffredi?"

Sigh.

Then there were the two boys sitting next to each other dressed identically as Elvis Costello but didn't know it.

Interpol was walking around. I think my favorite record of their's is The Head on the Door.

There was the group of young, twinky gay boys from the now-defunct FABRIC, who, well, also all looked like Elvis Costello, and also didn't know it, and just stared, bored and judgemental down their noses from their rectangular, black glasses that probably weren't even real.


As Bill now so famously put it, "Where did all this L.A. trash come from?" I honestly don't think I would have felt more out of place at a frat party. Swear to god. What a fucking black-clad, graphics-tee, baggy pants with your Calvin Klein boxer-briefs so conspicuously showing Nightmare.

Then there was Slick Rick's bus parked right in front of the club, with a steady parade of gangsters coming in and out of it, with black and Latina girls 47 pounds too fat for any of the outfits they were wearing, making a steady parade up and down the sidewalk, back and forth, so anxious to be the next vessel of whatever bug or virus Mr. Rick undoubtedly has crawling all over him.

George and I finally got tired of bitching and making fun of everybody (I know, it's hard to believe) and left after 2 drinks. On the way down the street George said to me, "You know, I hate to admit it, and it probably sounds pathetic, but I think we're just too old for this party."

Thanks a lot, Douchebags.