Swelter

"The Station" on the following night somewhat lower on the fun meter, polite college kids and an actual circa-1966 hootenanny interlude. Co-owner Parnell Delcham pointing out a madly dancing French girl in white tights. The week before she'd apparently really let go and had a good long sex romp in the glass-lined back room. Our companion delighting in the fact that a club crasher is now impersonating him around town, demanding "crack, ecstasy, whatever you got." Swept away by all the fun, in a throwing-caution-to-the-winds mood, downing two vitamin-crammed Blast drinks at the Smart Bar. Up all night, of course, trolling through a nightmarish wasteland of the fitfully sleeping homeless, couples screeching like cats ("Fuck you, maricon...." "Fuck you, puta!") and various unappetizing nightstalkers. The Road Warrior without nifty-looking cars or an upbeat ending. It might have been more sensible, as Lou Reed once put it, to opt for the usual cocktail and "nullify existence" for the evening.

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