YOU FANKY MADAFAKKAS

THIS WEEKEND WAS ONE OF THE CRACKINEST IN THE PEE-DUB'S two years or so in business, and that's saying something.

The first thing you need to know is that Thursday evenings at Saints are back, back, back. See, we're like neighborhood social workers. We don't spend four hours of every Thursday evening on our feet, straining our back and neck muscles staring into laptop screens for the piles of money, the flood of scanty women. That's Friday. We do it because the people of Palms need refuge. They need a night where it's not about laying across the bar while your friend drinks Goldschlager out of your navel. They need a night where it's all about the feel of the bar under your elbows, the feeling of that Glenlivet 18 warming up your chest. A block of time when friends old and new can chatter over the details of another week in the rear view mirror, and toast to the dawn of another weekend staring you in the eye with Rockstar and schnapps on its breath. And that summed up last Thursday evening on the nose. Nick (Myspace) is the new bartender on that shift, and he's a good fella with an encyclopedic knowledge of drinks and almost no wrist muscles whatsoever, so be careful what you order, or you may end up drinking out of someone's body parts before the night is up after all.

The Arsenal was crammed to the gills when I walked in, and by 10:30 the DJ booth was swarmed with tipsy white women in plastic tiaras asking for the usual barmitzvah classics, and one black lady begging for strip club rap. We have a lot of work to do on that crowd. But a few whacks on the head from the Gap Band and they were hoppin'.

Friday was classic Saints, from Jorge's Rocky & Bullwinkle hat and poncho combo to the extended Habibi danceoff and Bobby Darin singalong. After asking me to play Depeche Mode in the middle of a funk set that everyone else was clearly enjoying, one woman told me she doesn't like funky music, a statement I've been trying my best to understand ever since, but still can't wrap my head around. Can anyone tell me what that means?

Wasn't as packed as usual, but I heard you sick fucks drank a couple cellars' worth and tips were falling out the sky. Oh, and can we keep the low lights? Ian?

And Stinkers? Forgetaboutit. Silverlake officially got the palm tree logo stamped on its pale white ass last night. They were eating it up like baby sparrows. You hipster DJs must not be treating your people right. Sneak in a little Ray Charles between all the Santogold mashups every now and then, and thank me later.