Empty rooms and their occupants

Welcome to Postmodern Accident.

REFLECTING UPON TIMES PAST

So a few days after my birthday, some friends from work took me out for drinks at Nacional 27, where they serve the most heavenly mojitos known to humankind and apparently get quite jumping with salsa dancing, etc. after dark on weekends. In this instance, however, it just reminded me very heavily of the interior of a Howard Johnson's somewhere in 1979. My deep-seated memories are weird, okay?


This is Mary. It was her idea to go here. She had a very specific story about her gay husbands at this bar, but I cannot remember the details.
¡O dios mojitos!


The heavenly glow instigated by the mojitos quickly took over the entire room, and the faux-executive table at which we were sitting lit up like a christmas tree. Or a menorah. In attempting to take a picture of Michael, I realized I was getting a pretty cool reflective effect.


Berianne, captured here in mid-sentence (sorry, Grrremlin!). She makes a nice playing card, don't you think?


This is John, looking peaceful. He was all excited excited excited excited about the Wilco show. Yeah, I know, Wilco isn't worth such excitement, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I had previously ranted about the vacancy of Tori Amos's artistry the last time we'd gone for drinks, and I'm afraid poor John is starting to get the idea that I detest everything he likes. Can you imagine somebody thinking that about me?!?


This one is actually the coolest... First, there is Miraida, god bless her soul. No, she's not dead, but she did defect back over to Perseus. Then, there's McG, who I *really* want to dress up like Abraham Lincoln.

My friend Joe was with us as well, but he was getting over a bit of food poisoning from the day before and, like a vampire, I couldn't catch him on camera. He had no soul, you see, because he had puked it up at about 4 in the morning.

GETTING INTO THE SPIRITS

Thanks to everyone for a fine birthday this year.
Here's a little token of my appreciation.

(I should have posted those pictures weeks ago, but I got caught up in the Hafler Trio again. Sigh.)

34, and goths still unlive.

Welcome from Mr. Postmodern Accident, now in his 34th year.

THE ROAD TO BIRTHDAY BLISS

First and foremost, I must speak up about Alhambra Palace, a relatively new restaurant in Chicago. And palace, it is. Apparently this place has a capacity of nearly 1000, so they can accommodate your party of 90 without blinking. The interior of the restaurant is just breathtaking, centered around a sizeable entertainment stage that puts most of the venues I frequent to shame. We were fortunate enough to witness a couple of different performances, from flamenco dancing to the more expected Moroccan-flavored house band. I should mention, too, that the service was excellent, and our waitress seemed amazed and impressed that we were interested in such un-American items as the lebna (garlic yogurt dip, which I could eat by the bucket) and the kefta.

This is Cici and Trybil. They look like such good girls here, don't they?

Apparently Lily Pulitzer from Dan's party thought so, or maybe she was afraid that we would infiltrate and corrupt. Cici and Trybil approached Dan's party after the meal but now seem to think that Dan and his friend were more interested in *my* whereabouts. Anyway, happy birthday, Dan, wherever you are!

A MOMENTARY DETOUR

So I should take a moment to lament about how I'm still Apple's bitch. This is relevant, I promise. On Tuesday, Apple announced their new line of iPods, something I've been awaiting for years (my 3G is still working well but is on the last legs of its second battery and often feels more like an albatross around my neck than a cool, enjoyable gadget). Of course, I bought one that day, the silver 160 GB "iPod Classic." I'm already having dreams about it, and will undoubtedly post about it when it arrives in the mail next week.

I opted for the Classic due to its capacity, obviously, but the iPod Touch was tempting. I figure I'll get a future generation of iPhone and have all my inner touch-screen needs fulfilled at that point. So how is this relevant to last night's carousing? Well, I must say my RAZRmaxx continues to impress, especially with its camera, which can take great pictures in DARK environments. You'll see.

GETTING OFF AT THE NEXT EXIT

After a brief layover at the Pucci Palace, we headed to Exit. Not much to say about the club, except that it hasn't changed much, beyond filling the upstairs dance floor with tables, ensuring that the Saturday night industrial dance holdovers from 1988, or 1992, or 1997 (pick your scene) no longer show up. The music remains exactly the same (Thrill Kill, Revco, Puppy, Ministry, KMFDM, etc.), with a few new welcome twists (Muse! The Dandys!), and the shackles remain on the wall.

Sadly, not all the artifacts from Exit's yesteryear make much sense in the current context. Like the sign on the wall that reads, "DANGER: Unguarded Pit." So we did what we had to do to *make* it make sense.


And then the good girls went bad.



I like this one, a twisted tied-up tango:


Now I'm literally older than Jesus.