Word up, psychos. If you want to stalk the music editor this weekend, here's where he'll be going:
Alternate route: Nomathmatics at the Pistol Social Club, followed by a dance party at McCoy's with the female selector-DJs of Bitchwax (full disclosure: one of them is our clubs editor, Megan Metzger).
SATURDAY: The Record Bar for this show. You know we love the Last of the V8s, but I'd like to take a minute and characterize my relationship to them, seeing as how I've written about them so much (mostly on this blog) and people might start to think I favor them. Well, I do, but only because they fucking rock. Off stage, they're mostly bastards. I wouldn't trust a V8 with my last dime. I give them nothing but love, and still, they take my cigarettes, honk my nose and walk away. People, they'll steal the hat off your head and push you in front of a horse-drawn coach. If they'd been in Ben Hur, they would've been the guys with the spikes on wheels of their chariots. They're old-ish, ugly and cranky and have unfairly hot girlfriends. They oughta get down on their knees and lick my nuts, but instead, I'm usually the one who ends up getting molested, if I stick around too long after a show -- or arrive too early, even.
They deserve your support. And if I find out you're still stalking me, I'll pay Ryan Mattes $50 to eat your head.
I'm also excited about this new band the Rich Boys. Maybe I can make them my slaves and they'll protect me from the big mean V8s. Not likely -- I bet the Evil Ones have already gotten to them. Alas.
SUNDAY: I'll probably be too exhausted and hungover to leave my majestic apartment, overlooking the Plaza on one side and Loose Park on the other, my ermine bathrobe on and a mimosa in my hand, reading Wall Street Journal, brought up to me by a servant. This is what I look like, by the way. Is it any wonder they hate me, those cretin rock stars?
Whatever you do, don't drive drunk, and don't stalk us dandy fops.