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Sunday June 23, 2002 - 2:20 p.m. Stomach...hurts... I can't feel better until I have some cocoa. Want some cocoa? I'll make you some. And it'll be goooooood. No, really. On Friday at the club there were two men that looked like the lead singer of King Missile. It's unusual to see one man that looks like the lead singer of King Missile, but lo and behold, here were two. Count em, two. And there was a fire, although it might have just been something smoldering within the walls, or perhaps even just singed. Not too sure, but to be safe I plotted my escape plan. Dan the doorman told me to jump out of a window, but that wasn't happening for me. That place is one big tragedy/lawsuit waiting to happen. And the last notable was that there was an unusual amount of drink-spilling/glass-shattering going on. On the dancefloor, no less. Very, very odd. I believe in all the time I've been going there, I've only ever seen maybe one drink spilled. With all the drunkenness you'd think you'd see more of that kind of thing, but you'd be wrong. These people are fiercely protective of their alcohol. They'd rather lose a limb than spill. But Friday night, there it was, a comedy (or perhaps tragedy, depending on who you asked) of spillage. Oh yeah, Friday nights are a hell of a time with me, babies. Trust me. I'm going for cocoa now. Cover me.
-Mlle R
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