But I am the last junkie on earth . . .
Last night, I went with Cyn and Christie, who exists, to see the Dandy Warhols. They were strange. For one thing, there was no opening band. They got on stage, at about 9. When we had to leave so Cyn could go to work and Christie and I could catch the train (shortly before midnight) they were still going strong. I dig bands that do long shows in general.
As another plus, they did random covers. AC/DC, The Smiths, and The Stooges (the Stooges are my only friend) were those that we recognized.
Most fun of all, though, were the drunken dancing people. The Dandy Warhols are ironic. They are seeped in irony. Look at their name. It's so stupid it starts coming out brilliant. They deliberately take songs that could be catchy, huge hits, and make them sleepy. They do druggy songs about not doing drugs. And so on. Now, these drunken dancing folks, they were sincere. Earnest. And, in the case of the guy, well on his way to fat and bald. They were really, really, really happy when the single from the new album got played - as if the single from the new album wasn't going to be played. They were eventually joined by another pair. The new guy was obviously a hipster who kinda wanted to dance, but felt he should bob slightly to the beat, as opposed to throwing his body around to a song much faster than the one that's being played. The new girl, and the previous dancing girl, on the other hand, seemed to get along jussssst fine, as evidenced by the fact that they started kissing. Hot hot straight-girl-on-straight-girl action, as Cyn remarked.
None of them, however, managed to fall over the balcony and plummet to their untimely deaths. Which is probably good, as they were very amusing.