Major points if someone can tell me who said that.

Anyway...people keep asking me what I've been doing with my week and I am getting tired of telling them that I sat on my ass all week and did fuck-all. I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to do about it, but I'll figure something out.

The weekend was interesting enough. Friday, I went out to support my buddy Andy, who was DJing at Funeral. Hit the place a little before 2230 and it was pretty good while he and, later, this chick Veronica (for whom I attended a birthday party the previous week) were spinning, but it went a little downhill when a 3rd guy took the turntables. Then a band went on and they were...lacking. And loud. After their set, I wasn't really feeling the music and I decided to take off.

Saturday, I woke up early to hit a Garou game held out in Claremont. While I enjoyed the game, the drive kinda sucked. In the future, I think I'll either look to 'pool or hope they get a new location. Afterwards, though, I dialed up Thea and asked what she was up to. Since her guy was workin' she was doin' 'round the apartment stuff, so I invited her to grub. We went dutch at Bennigans and chatted, nothin' huge. Good to talk, though, 'cause we rarely seem to do that much.

Afterwards, I decided I wasn't in the mood to hit a midnight showing of Evil Dead 2, so I packed it in.

Sunday, I was supposed to hear from Jean, but she ended up not calling until, like, 1700. She apologised for skipping out on breakfast, but she'd been spending today and yesterday packing in preparation for her move this Saturday (which I agree to help with) and sleeping. She asked if I wanted to grab a bite and go see her boyfriend's band play. The boy is Christian, the band is Bad Chile. I've gotten much more used to both as the months have gone by. We hit Cirxa, 'cause nobody could think of anything else they wanted and it turned out to be the right move (quelle surprise). I kinda chuckled to myself 'cause Christian ordered a soft-shell crab sandwich and both he and Jean were very surprised to see a whole crab just deep fried and stuck on a bun. I explained to them that, no, it wasn't a joke and that's how they serve soft-shell crab: they cook the fucker and you eat the whole thing. Ask anyone from Maryland. Christian looked at it askance, tried a claw, and determined the sandwich was edible. He gave Jean the willies, though, by mentioning how much the damn thing looked like a spider, especially after he put the bun on it. She was not amused. Anyway...the sandwiches at Cirxa are annoyingly small for the price, but I wasn't starving, nor did I pay for it, so I had no complaints. As a rule, though, don't walk in there with less than $10 if you're really hungry. The food is good as a motherfucker, though. On my next return, I intend to try the cajun meatloaf, something I've been fond of since my first taste of it at the Farmer's Market.

So, after that, and a few abortive attempts at creativity on the paper they put over the tablecloths, we hit the road. As it turned out, neither of them had a very good idea where the Martini Lounge was. I couldn't remember the nearest (big) cross-street (Larchmont), but I knew it was near a t-intersection on Melrose. So after inquiring with a useless valet over at Patina, we busted a U and found the place. We went in, intending for one of us to have to pay the $5 cover, but apparently chaos was in full effect and the guy at the door didn't have a good idea of what the hell was going on. We had to wait a while for DOA to finish their set and get off the damn stage and I took in the surroundings. Tables were scarce. There was bench seating along the walls, which were dry, but occasionally had drinks stacked on them. Upstairs, a smoking patio with KROQ piped in. The bathroom looked like it'd hosted a lot of drunks, judging by the amount of broken brown glass in the corners. I grabbed a bunch of free postcards. Christian's band was...well, punk. Lot of screaming, chords (I guess), and other stuff. Unfortunately, a large number of the crowd left with DOA so Bad Chile was only playing to about 40 people, but the audience liked them well enough. Hell, even I thought they weren't too bad. The smell of bacon-wrapped hotdogs being cooked by the vendor outside kept distracting me, though, and one's mind tends to wander when the lyrics are as difficult to understand whether they're in English or Spanish. Still, the song about George Bush with the chorus that features the line "Daddy's little boy..." is a keeper and I'll certainly add their CD to my list of shit-to-buy-the-next-time-I-have-a-paycheque.

So, a cigarette and three Coronas later, I'm back at home, wondering what the fuck I'm going to do with myself this week. Ideas are appreciated.