Friday night I went to see my brother and one of his bands play for the singer’s birthday. I have seen punk shows, I have seen drunks – I have never seen so many drunkity drunks at a punk show.

Afterwards, we began running (tripping?) across the street to the club. Soon there was a crowd of us from the bar dancing while the majority of the club-goers stared resentfully at us from the sidelines.

As I was hula hooped around by a friend, I noticed that there was a girl in huge orange pants, a spiked choker, and pigtails waving glo-sticks, and I momentarily flash-backed to 1999 when I wore virtually the same thing (except my choker was studded, my pants were zebra-striped, and I was never cool enough to go raving). Then I noticed a man in a suit and a man in a wheelchair wheeling around the  dance floor. Then, to my left, I saw an old man with white hair. In fetish wear. In like a latex harness with rings. I thought I was going to die. Things like this do not happen to me. I WAS LOSING MY MIND. OH GOD WHO SPIKED MY PBR WITH ACID.

The next day I found out that it had been “gothic, alternative, industrial, and fetish night.” My brother and I decided that we need to go to the club after every show. Tonight, however, I found out that the club closed two days ago. We killed it.