But every now and then he'll just flake. No call, no nothing. Our first tip is always the punk music we can hear before we even step in the place, coming from the small device sat on the turntables that has replaced a Mexican Photoshop professor for the evening. The device belongs to Ian, who is hopping around the bar in the kind of excitable state you will only find him in when punk music is playing. I love Ian, and do not want to be responsible for ending his euphoric moment, so I play ball: "Street Fighting Man" by the Ramones, some AC/DC. But he's wise already; the head is still nodding, he's still somewhat giddy - but he knows where this road leads. It leads to hip-hop. But we threw them a few more bones later on into the night, even if it wasn't Faith No More (even I have limits). It was Miss Janet Dandridge's birthday that night, so she was out in force with the ladies, doing plenty of her infamous duck-dance for the crowd, which was quite thick that night. Cooper got me extremely drunk. Voice and Indigo showed up and got me real high. My ex-neighbor got tired of waiting for me and walked off, leaving her shoes on Venice Blvd. I woke up on the floor of my bathroom. And Saturday was a dark, dark day.
