Last night at Snitch, things got hectic. Over-capacity is an understatement when describing the amount of bodies shoved into that sardine can of a rock club. The place is pretty cool, but it should have a lot less people in it, who would feel ever more exclusive with a tiny bit more breathing room. Heck, they could actually enjoy the various chicks taking turn to slide up and down the stripper pole convenientally located near the stage.
First things first.
Opening band, The Dirty Pearls…can’t say they were worth the ear-drum damage. To put it another way, they’d probably fit in well with the monday night line-up at LA’s the Viper Room….to put it yet another way:
Moving on…people don’t act nicely when they’re crowded and hot, and trying to look good. The crowd was certainly attractive. Especially the guys. The guys definitely had the girls beat out on hotness. Or I am biased, Maybe.
But beyond looking hot, the temperature was verging on sauna. One girl decided to take her top off, which of course landed her on stage with that Dirty band…
Then Mickey showed up and the crowd went pretty nuts.
He was accompanied by The Porcelain Twins, who did a good job of crawling, grinding, and making suggestive facial gestures without the slightest smudge of their make-up. The crowd really dug it.
Happiness, of course, inspires hostility. Lots of spilling drinks, lots of shoving. Lots of smiling fans bobbing to a string of words pertaining to such topics as nodding out and getting nasty.
Speaking of nodding out. I turned to my friend Karen a few songs into the set, and I notice she is leaning back on some chicks behind her, with her elbows out and a peculiar look on her face. I said, “Karen, were those girls messing with you??” No response. She is swaying strangely. “Karen? Are you okay?” Just a minute ago she had whispered something to me about wanting greasy french fries, and now her eyeballs were rolling up into her head. I slapped her a couple times. “KAREN!” Then boom, she fell back on the floor. And we’d only had one drink each and she reported eating 40 dumplings before coming out. This was a heat issue.
In the midst of panic, some man with an elaborate tattoo on his neck and fingerless gloves appears through the crowd, scoops up my friend and together we parted that sea of bodies like Moses and Aaron. We sat her down on the stairs by the entrance but that, we were informed, was a fire hazard. I was like, seriously? Then a management type of person directed us to the only seat in the house. The toilet.
After a couple of swedish fish and chewing on some ice, Karen came back to life, but I noticed she was no longer wearing her shoes.
Back into the mad heap, I ventured, while Avalon served a dose of “Jane Fonda” to the delighted crowd….and there’s me crawling around on the dancefloor (ruining my suede boots, by the way) in search of my friend’s Mary Janes. I only found one. We stuck around until the whole place cleared up and still no second shoe appeared. Now somebody somewhere in Manhattan is drinking Jameson out of a possibly stinky shoe. Or entertaining a foot fetish perhaps, I hear that’s popular.
So the nice people of Snitch helped us build a shoe for Karen out of a garbage bag. Pretty good.
And the guy, who I wish I had made out with, the angel among men. His name, I learned, was Reno. Chivalry is not dead, it turns out. It just got some tattoos.
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