And it was a busy weekend.

Saturday started early at Energy. Yeah, we’re starting to wonder ourselves why we still show up. Still tied up with the licensing board, Energy continues to be unable to play music in their main room — giving the place more of a lounge atmosphere. A lounge atmosphere with strippers, but no announcer — no, that would use the speakers. This means all normally scheduled nights are now largely off, and just as everyone’s coming back to school, we’ll bet someone’s pissed.

Anyhow, next stop was Dark Lady’s positively trashy block party. Now the white trash block party (or was it the “trailer trash” block party? it’s probably racist somehow to say “white trash”) seems to happen every year. Last year it was in August, so it had this steamy southern trailer park feel which with a little imagination had a dirty-sexy Jerry Springer vibe. This year, on account of the chilly weather it was like partying on 8 Mile Road. All plaid and dirty jeans. It could have been a “homeless” block party, and sexy was definitely not on the (folding) table. With so many theme possibilities, we’re not sure why the Dark Lady continues to drag out the same parties every year — we’ve all pretty much had enough of Christmas in July. Then Rande pulls some inflatable beach balls out of the pick-up truck (with DJ AV8 spinning records from the back), and people start acting trashy too. One of those beach balls almost hit Rob Mol behind the outside bar — but we batted the damn thing away because he was making our drinks at the time, then looked to see which drag queens were wearing stilettos for us to use to pop it if it came near us again. Actually we had fun, especially with Bomb Dome and Bitchie D in tow.

Insert here a trip to Mirabar, which of course was doing just fine apparently having it’s own trailer-trash party.

Then it was time for the serious fun to begin! We were whisked away by Bomb Dome to Balloons (yes, again), where she stole picked up more bottles of poppers (yes, more). We haven’t talked about Balloons in a while, and Saturday night at 3am it was slammed inside with twats flying through the air at that whole street-thug stripper-people crowd — which we find fascinating, they wear such tight, bright clothing. Once we finally peeled ourselves away, we took that lonely drive across Prairie Ave to get back to civilization and Sebastian Leger at Therapy!

Jeff LeClair had been promoting this night with Leger for at least six weeks, so we were fairly sure that this one was going to be rather legendary. And it was. All rooms filled up, the whole place was explosive well past 6am. We even caught up with Chris Harris, fresh from Roxy Boston, who for whatever reason was dressed like a pirate. We teased him about shopping at a Michael Jackson estate sale while in LA. You know, for being there for a good five hours, we didn’t spend any time dancing. In fact, when we think about it, we can’t quite figure out what it is exactly that we do there for five hours. It’s mostly a lot of running around, talking, more walking, then some sitting and looking bitchy, then more milling around, also while looking bitchy. Inside, outside, back inside — and we don’t even smoke. No dancing. Weird? Next week is Vic Calderone, which will be a treat, so we’re looking at another party of equal or greater size. Will you go?