No Fun?

How much fun was Saturday? Hmmm... let me see. First, Little Steven's Underground Garage Festival: VIP passes that admitted us to a grassy paradise with a pool, free beer, a full buffet, private bathrooms, and multiple points of access to the field. The Strokes playing an uncharacteristically energetic set, which included a comment on the appropriateness of Dunkin' Donuts's sponsorship before launching into "New York City Cops." Iggy Pop flawlessly validating LK's claim that the Ig is the greatest live performer on the planet. He was an amp-humping, audience-taunting whirlwind of muscle and mayhem. He sang "No Fun" with, like, four fans crawling on his back, and he didn't miss a beat. The New York Dolls (David Johanson in particular) looked like the sarcophagus had been opened mere moments before they went on stage. Seriously, are we sure the entire band didn't die last month? And what can I say about Dick Manitoba and the Dictators? Do those guys just club women and drag them back to their cave? They were fucking fantastic. Best part? The Jersey meathead guy in front of me with the Dictators t-shirt on his head. He just kept looking at everyone around him and repeating his mantra: "I only came to see one band!" Other highlights included Sabrina and I making fun of Julian Casablancas's fat, acne-ridden kisser after every song; doing an impression of LK's concert swagger in full sunglass apparel; Patrick's drunken attempt to literally wrestle my VIP pass away so he could get another drink (which he needed like a fish needs a bicycle); Lane's claim that he would "drop trou" and show security his motorcycle injury if they tried to take away his tiny scissors; and much, much more. All in all, it was good friends, great bands, good times.

I thought I might have to pass out during the ferry ride back to Manhattan, but MTC (who is also the angel of mercy who hooked up the VIP passes) took pity on me. We spent some quality time watching TiVo'ed Olympic coverage while I wolfed down some Mickey-Dee's. Then it was time for phase two: Misshapes. No magic aspirin, but the second wind did kick in thanks in large part to the first DJ. I think her name is Ilirjana, and she ruled the shit. I mean, anyone who plays X-Ray Spex, Bis, the Dead Kennedys's "California Über Alles," "Where Eagles Dare" by the Misfits, and Mötley Crüe's "Wild Side" is all right by me. Managed to completely sweat through my clothes and kept yelling "Fucking Awesome!!" at the top of my lungs. It's nice to be too wasted to care that you're a total ass. Next DJ was a complete mope. Once he played "Bust a Move" and informed us that he didn't have any Pulp (Didn't even look like he'd heard of them. The club is called "Misshapes" fer chrissakes!), we knew it was time to move on.

Finally got home around 5:00 a.m., and the most excellent Sarah was awake and willing to sit up with me while I consumed more beers. Spousal unit Princess Points: 2,500.

Slept until 2:30 p.m. on Sunday. Subsequent bad mood and blood-curdling hangover totally worth it.

Thanks to Sarah, MTC, LK, Brian, Sabrina, Lane, Matt, Patrick, Jerry, Rich, Chezza, Chelle, and Misshapes (esp. Ilirjana) for a true test of man's endurance in the face of marathon good times.

Diagnosis: FUCKING AWESOME!!