So last week, I received a form letter from Pioneer Square watering hole Doc Maynard's, humbly requestingin an effort to debunk its "old stigma as a frat bar"that I check the place out, with the dangling carrot of two VIP passes for "house covers" (let's pretend that means booze, not admission).
Talk about pushing all the right buttons! Not to alienate my core audience, but other than the Klan and Radiohead fans, there is no faction I misunderstandnaydespise on this planet more than no-neck A&F frat thugs and their 6-foot, beret-and-micromini-clad blond escorts. I'm reminded of their existencenaydominance every day trudging to and from my home in Ravenna. I mean, in college, I used to throw debris from moving cars at these people. The prospect of free alcohol coupled with their absence from their own turf was too good to be true, yet I fulfilled the prophecy of last week's booty dancing Mixtape and admitted myself to the Pioneer Square Joint Cover Loony Bin.
Joint Cover: The idea is so novel, yet nobody I commiserate withmost of them being carless, broke, and saneparticipates. Twelve smackers grants you admission to 11 clubs, all basically within a five-by-three-block grid. Anticipating the likelihood that all 11 would suck, I decided to power one cocktail at each, maybe even put the "joint" in joint cover, and spend a Saturday there with friends Rutherford, Lauren, and Mystery Guest.
FENIX UNDERGROUND, 9:30 P.M.: Exactly two people are dry humping on the dance floor when the canned beats conspicuously, eerily cut out. Only the disco lights, unfortunate writhing, and we remain. We're a smidge early.
NEW ORLEANS, 9:45 P.M.: Or are we? The spiritual jazz of the Winard Harper Sextet is rocking a rapt yuppie crowd, many of whom abandon their tables to boogie by the stage. I'd soak in the sweet spectacle longer, but Mystery Guest's expired driver's license doesn't make the cut. Joint Cover affords you a killer UV wrist stamp, but you have to flash ID at every venue. Remember this handy bouncer conversation piece, kids: "I lost a lot of weight."
J&M CAFE, 9:55 P.M.: I reconvene with the party and plow a rum and Coke. That's three cocktailsand a few more indulgencesin a half hour, and I'm officially ready to start and lose a fight with the J&M clientele, meticulously detailed in this column's third sentence. Everyone brays happily along to Puddle of Mudd's "She (Fuckin') Hates Me." Some random beret babe slaps Lauren's hand in passing, nearly igniting a catfight. The second we abandon the dance floor, J&M turns into Studio 54. We do not belong.
THE CENTRAL, 10:15 P.M.: Enkrya is a tight melodic metal trio, not unlike Chevelle. Their bassistor is it guitarist?has dreadlocksor are they braids? I'm already plofficially asstered and lurch to the lip of the stage to thrash with gigantic head-shop dudes in braids . . . and/or dreadlocks.
JUAN O'RILEY'S, 10:30 P.M.: Joint Cover doesn't apply here tonight. What the shit? Is Collective Soul playing a surprise set? This sucks. I wanted a strawberry daiquiri.
DOC MAYNARD'S, 10:40 P.M.: So I forgot my VIP passes. Just as well; Mystery Guest strikes out at the door. While the Protocol sets up on the massive stage, the P.A. blasts Andrew D.B. favorite, Rocket From the Crypt. I down a cheap, delicious vodka shot, and some rockers strike up a pleasant conversation about my Ohio tattoo. I'm only here five minutes and I'm in love. (Um, OK, so "house cover" means "free drinks," right?)
OLD TIMER'S CAFE, 10:55 P.M.: Like almost every P-Square haunt, Old Timer's is ancient, spacious, and blessed with impossibly high, voyeuristic balconies. Rutherford's take: "There's not a bunch of idiots here." I don't know how to salsa dance, so Lauren and Rutherford improvise while I lap at a whiskey Coke. I'm going to die alone.
ZASU, 11:30 P.M.: We meet last week's Halloween party vixens, Jolene and Minerva. Both are wasted, courtesy of a company ball, but not as wasted as their columnist friend, who waltzes right past the 500-pound door guy, chirping, "It's cool, dude, I'm a columnist!" yet is spared a beating. A pretty boy adult-alternative band is onstage. Time to booty dance.
THE BOHEMIAN, 11:50 P.M.: "Hey Ya" is not the ideal soundtrack for the level of pathetic drunken honesty I achieve here.
LARRY'S, 12:30 A.M.: See last week's Mixtape, subtract fun. I do, however, willfully sacrifice my platform-stage-dancing virginity with Jolene. "Downtown" Julie Brown owes us tiaras and corsages.
TIKI BOB'S CANTINA, 1:15 A.M.: As I down a red-headed slut, it occurs to me that I haven't been to an indie-rock showor hurled lasagna at a frat boyin weeks. Things must change. Propose an intervention or stump me with Korn trivia at the e-mail below or Death by Mixtape, c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Suite 300, Seattle, WA 98104.
Send news, rumors, and unsubstantiated, feckless dirt to firstname.lastname@example.org