Alright, alright. Let’s address right off the bat the scurrilous rumors that I have been fired from Nightspots magazine. This rumor is, regrettably, true. Why, this very issue of Nightspots has been produced from my new guerrilla, underground lair located somewhere on the outskirts of town. Here, in my subterranean Suburbia I sit and spin tales of ficticious bar events, while my trusty, lusty manservant Snickers files my toenails into sharp points for self-defense against the revolting alligator people and satisfies my animal lusts on an altar strewn with the tattered robes of those who have wronged me. Bwah hah hah!
For instance: Bobby Love’s certainly never celebrated their 10th anniversary; CellBlock’s FURR party never packed the house nuts to butts with hirsute honeys; Hydrate’s staff drag show never turned about; 3160 is yet to enjoy their third anniversary in style with the dulcet tones of one Rose Colletta; I never grabbed an issue of Nightspots with David Graham on the cover from my trunk to get the phone number of Hideaway, only to encounter David when I got there; Berlin’s STARDUST never had the chance to thrill and delight right with Jason Tyler and Jobot; Foozie never brought her Boystown magic to the new Rumors in North Riverside, the girls never kicked straight club butt at 115 Bourbon Street, and Sean Penn never won the Academy Award for best actor to the wonder of the cheering crowd at Sidetrack.
Oh wait, all those things did happen. And I took pictures of them all. That must mean… oh my stars… maybe I HAVEN’T been fired! Where IS my mind lately?
And to those who started the rumor, this is the sound of me laughing last. Ha.