The LOUD Night Purrs @ Cosmo (Part II)
Up in the balcony, two, tall, Carrie-Anne Moss Matrix-esque babes lean against the rail next to me. Pretty sure they were there first. (Everything’s a little hazy from this distance.) One of these shiny, skin-tightly black-clad damsels has her hair flamed supernatural red. What I really wanna say is: “You two look so cool.” But my mouth stays shut. This is their turf, not mine. My getup is way too old school square for this scene.
Save for the fog machine and the gee-whiz robotic motion lights, Cosmo hasn’t changed a bit since my last visit — three jobs, one girlfriend, two U.S. presidents, and four apartments ago. There’s still a long bar off the “orchestra” section (though I’m pretty sure no orchestra has played this venue since the Eisenhower administration) and another one upstairs, in the center of the balcony.
The first band BLARES the last song of its set when Nico surprise-hugs me from behind. Zen’s with her, too.
What’s new? Nico and Zen want to know. Besides trying a novel, nothing. Ooh, a novel. What’s it about? Thugs, wusses, and the chicks they dig. Pretty sure I lose Nico’s interest on the word: Thugs.
Before the bartender will serve them, Nico and Zen have to go three floors back down for neon-yellow bracelets of their own.
Halfway through the second band’s set, most of everybody else arrives.
If you’re looking to get your head banged, you really want to be down in the “orchestra.” Stand in front of either tower of one-story tall speakers and your rib cage will shudder. Your rib cage will experience a 10 on the Richter scale. You won’t even need to beat your own heart. These speakers are pumped so all the way up, they’ll do that for you.
In the men’s room, downstairs, there’s no mirror. Over the only sink, there’s a framed list of trivia and conversation starters. Like: “Cat urine glows under black light.”
Upon my return to the balcony, I enlighten Lass, since she has cats. She isn’t impressed with my newly discovered tidbit. Still, I urge her to test it out. Her expression tells me it won’t be going on her priority list. I’ll just have to get my own cat urine. First, I’ll need to get a black light. And a cat.
Anyway, where the hell is the Bongster?
2 October 2004