As I walk in, I hear civilized gentry music as Alan! and Caustic take turns reading from books that could only have titles like “HTML & Javascript for Beginners”, “Bible Passages for the Elderly” and “New Employee Orientation Guide for Pasta A-Go-Go.”

This continues for about an eternity. People are talking about grilled cheese sandwiches, I can smell them, but I can’t see the evidence of one anywhere. Then we get what seems like it could be a screwed version of a Public Enemy song mixed with opera music. I’m not sure.

Around the entrance to The Inferno, is a battlefield of toy soldiers. To the left of them, a pile of contraceptives and lube with a sign next to them that says, “These are for Eating.” A deluge of 80′s pop and hair rock spews out of the speakers like bile. I just order more drinks. I curse Nick for telling me about this, and swear that I will murder and eat him. Just then Alan! dumps a pile of bacon off next to me at the bar, I want to partake, but I’m worried about the implications of doing so. I order more drinks instead. Someone is looping the lyrics “Brown Eyed Girl” over and over again while some other song entirely plays on top of it.

…and suddenly it sounds like Santana mixed with The Electric Company. “This is poetry,” I think as I drink my rum and coke and hopes and dreams for a tomorrow that just won’t fucking come.

Death metal becomes the predominate theme as I assume we shift into the “Death Metal Bingo” portion of the night’s entertainments. Bingo cards are handed out, though I do not recall numbers being called. I grab one of the sheets of “My Little Pony” stickers that are left around the bar and put a purple pony on my cell phone. Never question my sexuality. I need to drink more alcohol, so I do. At this point it starts to get a little hazy to me.

There is a Pepsi repairman or something testing the soda dispensers behind the bar. I was wearing a shirt with a faux Pepsi logo, so I thought this funny. This errant though leading me off onto a tangent.

This is a cognitive nightmare. We disseminate. We sort, organize, delineate. Then we masturbate. We classify the orgasm. Carefully measure the ejaculation. We record this. This is the new pornography. We are all the cartographers of the fleshy paths. It is human nature, the nature of nurture. Pixelized pollen from the stamen of the soul. Data, light, sound, static and harmony, the sweat of the subconscious.

Girls are on the dance floor fighting with inflated condoms as the bartender wears a sticker that says “huffing glue is cheap.” What does that mean? Does it mean that glue huffing is not costly or that only cheap people indulge in such pleasures?

I leave the party for awhile, drive down to the Bartell Theatre, get bitten by Pete who is happy with the opening of Compleat Female Stage Beauty. I step into The Mercury Lounge, douchebag DJs and a crowd of kids who are one Abercrombie away from being fratboys. Pipes are being passed around, I decline. I return to The Inferno.

“James Brown is Dead,” blares from the speakers. Indeed he is. All that and more.

I settle into a seat somewhere. I am almost out of cash, so I give the bartender two dollars and ask for whatever that will buy. I get a bottle of PBR. Brown Eyed Girl is played again, I protest. Deaf ears. Time goes by. I call Alan! a Barbecue Fetishist, because he, in fact, is. There are cards all over that ask if you would date, or fuck, Alan! and ask you to circle your answer. Some of them only have the option of “yes” while others lack even that basic facility. I want to smash the little toy soldiers.

The night ends. I sit in my car on the phone, hoping to catch an afterparty. Instead I go home, disappointed, and cook myself some eggs.

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