Toledo, Bottle Rocket Bar
Good God! At some point tonight I was cheek-to-cheek with this waif of a girl, this exotic, sweet-smelling thing who had a stream of drunken men, myself included, teetering along behind her like rats, trying impossibly to be civilized when all we could think was how we didn't want to be the ones stuck jacking off yet again after another rockin' Friday night.... I, of course, was resigned, but the other guys took out their rage by using their "drunken boxing" on every last "nerd" they caught leaving the Silkworm show. It's a damned shame!

Before all the kids got walloped, though, the show was a gas. We thought we'd be playing to the bartenders & the snoozing regulars, but as it turned out, the regulars were, for the most part, awake, and there were a number of entertaining people who came out for the fracas. The opening bands were entertaining, even the "guitar duo" who shoehorned themselves onto the bill at the last minute were all sorts of fun, they were fans, one of them - this is true - had read these journals so often that he spent the whole night disappointed in me for not being the drunken letcherous lout I make myself out to be. By the end of the night, jacking off, like so many other bruised & lonely Toledo men, to the memory of that soft, elegant cheek, I really could see his point. But by then I was far too tired to care.

This was a long day. We all spent the day working our various straight jobs in Chicago & drove like mad through rush-hour traffic, back through the time zones to Toledo for the night. It was a gas, though. Some things from a distance look like nothing but a challenge, & turn into nothing but powdery drunken kick-boxing sweetness up close. A pleasant and unusual night.

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