Blog Number Nine, Number Nine: Insomnia and Clubbing In Seattle
As always, any questions, concerns, complaints, or suggestions can be sent to razorsedgeblog@gmail.com. ALL emails will read, disseminated, and laughed at by our crack staff before we answer them.
We, the staff of The Razor's Edge, are taking suggestions for a new segment of the blog. The best suggestion will receive a $10 gift certificate to Amazon.com (we're cheap bastards). As well, the winner gets to be The Razor's Edge personal correspondent to wherever you hail from. The contest, if you want to call it that, ends exactly one month from now (12:01am, Wed. May 23). We are looking for creativity, originality, and pinache. An example of this is from the Ramblings of a Late 20-Something blogsite (if you haven't read this entire blogsite yet, what the hell is wrong with you?):
Some blogs have quote of the days, others have pics of the days, etc. Hell, it could even be a poem of the day. Keep in mind, the winner MUST have their submission ready each time we blog. As a requirement, all ideas and/or winner submissions must NOT be previously copyrighted. You may, however, attribute the copyright. Don't fuck with us on this, plagiarism is stealing and we here at the Edge hate a cheater (Die, Barry Bonds, Die).
Put your collective thinking caps on and may the best man, or woman, win.
Before we get to the topics on hand, I would like to discuss insomnia.
I am an insomniac by nature, as most of the crew on the Edge are. Most of us are either bi-polar, addicted to caffeine, or just plain fucking crazy. Needless to say, no sleep fucking sucks. I hate not sleeping; I love laying in bed and doing absolutely nothing. I prefer, of course, to have a naked woman by my side, but that's just me.
I am sick of being an insomniac. In college, I went into an extreme case of insomnia with not sleeping for two or three days straight. Now, I admit, I was drinking ALOT of caffeine; but 72-hour sessions with not a even a cat's nap is uncalled for. The only time that shit is acceptable is during a weekend bender of hardcore, pornographic sex with someone you don't even know (watch the movie "The Center of the World" to get my meaning). Even with that kind of marathon activity, you need water, food, and a breather.
Insomnia, in my opinion, is almost hailed as acceptable behavior in these fine country of ours. We relish and welcome working 12, 14, even 16-hour shifts at places like Microsoft, Boeing, and Merrill Lynch to rack up enough money to buy our way into the upper 1% like the religious Right racks up enough good deeds to buy their way into Heaven.
I think I can speak for the entire crew to say all I want to do is make enough money and retire on a small, out-of-the-way island in the Caribbean, lounge on the sandy beaches, get really, really high off local ganga, drink Mai-Tais, and have sex---a lot of sex.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Now on the the topics at hand:
As I mentioned in the last blog, the crew took a well-deserved weekend off (fucking bastards). I met up with then in Seattle in the district called Queen Anne Hill. Of course, I was late like clockwork.
The clubs in Seattle are different of those of yore; they were once something to look forward to. We would start out having happy hour at Von's, catch of Italian at Il Forniao or some seafood at a sushi joint. Then, go back to Von's for more cocktails, and then hit the club scene. Shit always was poppin'' down at the Club Medusa or Element or even up the road on Capital Hill at the one gay club every straight person want to go to: Neighbor's. This is the club where, gay or straight, one love was shared by all. Brotherhood by the beat a DJ who works Neighbor's told me once. If, by some act of God, the scene was dead at these clubs, then Pioneer Square was the place to seen. The Phoenix, The Last Supper Club, or Larry's were the true haunts of the rockoholics, the breakbeat, house hounds, or the hip-hop honeys.
Now, Pioneers Square is a cesspool of gang violence, Goth wanna-be's, and drug dealers. I personally haven't been to Neighbor's in years, although I 've been told it's the true straight meat market (although it's still considered a gay club). Club Medusa, one of my all-time faves in the Emerald City, has changed owners. It's dropped off the map. And as far as the Element is concerned, it's fucking boring as hell.
The before mentioned club I met the crew at on Queen Anne Hill, The Mirabu Room, is a small, hole-in-the-wall club that maybe houses 150 people. Ever have the feeling, as soon as you step into a club, a fight is going to break at any second? The vibe scared the shit out of me. All I want to do is drink, have a good time, and talk to the beautiful babies. That's it. I do not want to hear five fucking Michael Jackson songs in a row, I do not want to hear the Humpty Dance, nor do I want to even come in relation to any hip-hop or R&B made before 2004. I want to hear good house, deep house, trance, and some breakbeat. If I want to hear the hip-hop made by Digital Underground, Hammer, or K7, I'd go into the a restaurant disguised as a dance club in the suburbs and watch all the fat, can't-get-a-date-with-a-rich-man-ghetto fab white women who had four fucking kids by the time they reached 10th grade.
Is it to much to ask, in the 14th largest city in the nation, to get modern music, a few ultra-clubs, and a fucking dress code in a club? I want to spend $100 on three watered-down drinks, over-priced parking, and cover at a club. That is what clubbing is all about. At least Las Vegas has the clubbing thing to a fucking T.
Beautiful people enjoying themselves at beautifully lavish clubs paying beautifully exorbinate prices. No big-'80's hair, New Jersey Iroc-driving, chain-smoking four-sandwich eating single mothers wanted.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Courtesy of Georgia Writer and the "Ramblings" blogsite.
We, the staff of The Razor's Edge, are taking suggestions for a new segment of the blog. The best suggestion will receive a $10 gift certificate to Amazon.com (we're cheap bastards). As well, the winner gets to be The Razor's Edge personal correspondent to wherever you hail from. The contest, if you want to call it that, ends exactly one month from now (12:01am, Wed. May 23). We are looking for creativity, originality, and pinache. An example of this is from the Ramblings of a Late 20-Something blogsite (if you haven't read this entire blogsite yet, what the hell is wrong with you?):
Some blogs have quote of the days, others have pics of the days, etc. Hell, it could even be a poem of the day. Keep in mind, the winner MUST have their submission ready each time we blog. As a requirement, all ideas and/or winner submissions must NOT be previously copyrighted. You may, however, attribute the copyright. Don't fuck with us on this, plagiarism is stealing and we here at the Edge hate a cheater (Die, Barry Bonds, Die).
Put your collective thinking caps on and may the best man, or woman, win.
Before we get to the topics on hand, I would like to discuss insomnia.
I am an insomniac by nature, as most of the crew on the Edge are. Most of us are either bi-polar, addicted to caffeine, or just plain fucking crazy. Needless to say, no sleep fucking sucks. I hate not sleeping; I love laying in bed and doing absolutely nothing. I prefer, of course, to have a naked woman by my side, but that's just me.
I am sick of being an insomniac. In college, I went into an extreme case of insomnia with not sleeping for two or three days straight. Now, I admit, I was drinking ALOT of caffeine; but 72-hour sessions with not a even a cat's nap is uncalled for. The only time that shit is acceptable is during a weekend bender of hardcore, pornographic sex with someone you don't even know (watch the movie "The Center of the World" to get my meaning). Even with that kind of marathon activity, you need water, food, and a breather.
Insomnia, in my opinion, is almost hailed as acceptable behavior in these fine country of ours. We relish and welcome working 12, 14, even 16-hour shifts at places like Microsoft, Boeing, and Merrill Lynch to rack up enough money to buy our way into the upper 1% like the religious Right racks up enough good deeds to buy their way into Heaven.
I think I can speak for the entire crew to say all I want to do is make enough money and retire on a small, out-of-the-way island in the Caribbean, lounge on the sandy beaches, get really, really high off local ganga, drink Mai-Tais, and have sex---a lot of sex.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Now on the the topics at hand:
As I mentioned in the last blog, the crew took a well-deserved weekend off (fucking bastards). I met up with then in Seattle in the district called Queen Anne Hill. Of course, I was late like clockwork.
The clubs in Seattle are different of those of yore; they were once something to look forward to. We would start out having happy hour at Von's, catch of Italian at Il Forniao or some seafood at a sushi joint. Then, go back to Von's for more cocktails, and then hit the club scene. Shit always was poppin'' down at the Club Medusa or Element or even up the road on Capital Hill at the one gay club every straight person want to go to: Neighbor's. This is the club where, gay or straight, one love was shared by all. Brotherhood by the beat a DJ who works Neighbor's told me once. If, by some act of God, the scene was dead at these clubs, then Pioneer Square was the place to seen. The Phoenix, The Last Supper Club, or Larry's were the true haunts of the rockoholics, the breakbeat, house hounds, or the hip-hop honeys.
Now, Pioneers Square is a cesspool of gang violence, Goth wanna-be's, and drug dealers. I personally haven't been to Neighbor's in years, although I 've been told it's the true straight meat market (although it's still considered a gay club). Club Medusa, one of my all-time faves in the Emerald City, has changed owners. It's dropped off the map. And as far as the Element is concerned, it's fucking boring as hell.
The before mentioned club I met the crew at on Queen Anne Hill, The Mirabu Room, is a small, hole-in-the-wall club that maybe houses 150 people. Ever have the feeling, as soon as you step into a club, a fight is going to break at any second? The vibe scared the shit out of me. All I want to do is drink, have a good time, and talk to the beautiful babies. That's it. I do not want to hear five fucking Michael Jackson songs in a row, I do not want to hear the Humpty Dance, nor do I want to even come in relation to any hip-hop or R&B made before 2004. I want to hear good house, deep house, trance, and some breakbeat. If I want to hear the hip-hop made by Digital Underground, Hammer, or K7, I'd go into the a restaurant disguised as a dance club in the suburbs and watch all the fat, can't-get-a-date-with-a-rich-man-ghetto fab white women who had four fucking kids by the time they reached 10th grade.
Is it to much to ask, in the 14th largest city in the nation, to get modern music, a few ultra-clubs, and a fucking dress code in a club? I want to spend $100 on three watered-down drinks, over-priced parking, and cover at a club. That is what clubbing is all about. At least Las Vegas has the clubbing thing to a fucking T.
Beautiful people enjoying themselves at beautifully lavish clubs paying beautifully exorbinate prices. No big-'80's hair, New Jersey Iroc-driving, chain-smoking four-sandwich eating single mothers wanted.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Courtesy of Georgia Writer and the "Ramblings" blogsite.
posted by JohnnyMac at 3:04 PM
1 Comments:
all I want to do is make enough money and retire on a small, out-of-the-way island in the Caribbean...funny you should say that as my best friend and I were just planning the other day to do the same thing when we win the lottery--or when I become a multi-million dollar author :) Thanks for the good vibes.
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