Arsenal, Fin

IT ONLY TOOK ONE NO-SHOW from us on Thursdays for the Arsenal's management to wipe, zip up and give us the royal flush. But it's not like we didn't see it coming. Burnie Nowax and Sum Nocrates do not make sense at the Arsenal. We knew that as we were squinting into the house mixer's RCA jacks on our first night. One thing I'll give the Arsenal is that there are always some saucy bims up in there. Sure, by and large it's your average Westside duckpond, but I could always count on seeing at least two or three stunners, like this one piece of art who cornered me in the DJ booth and attempted to eat me with her ass for thirty minutes straight, before walking off and throwing up all over herself. The last I saw of my Thursday night love was her sitting on the sidewalk, head in hand, surrounded by a gaggle of her friends stroking her back and holding her hair. Another romance crushed. Fate, you do me so wrong.

Alas, it's not our scene. Everyone involved was hoping the Arsenal's crowd would enjoy one night per week when they wouldn't have to hear the same songs they hear every other night of the week in every other bar in the city. Apparently that was idealistic. But ultimately it's a blessing. Sure, we need the money, but we also need our livers, and at four DJ gigs a week I might as well have a kid with the first sexy binge-drinker who's willing, just so I can have a reliable backup on ice. Besides, the Arsenal gig was cutting into my drinking schedule at Saints on Thursday nights, which Truck refers to as my "double-fist" nights. Something about that phrase is a bit raunchy. Regardless, I treasure my post-Happy-Hour-set staggering time there, and I'll be glad to have it back without having to figure out how to get my drunk ass across town to a bar full of people who are hoping I don't come. Besides, the DJ booth there is way too small for two men.

I did like the flyer I made for the night though. That there is a bummer.

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