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Can I say once again that those who rock, do, and those who can't, just write about it? That's exactly the lesson I learned the hard way Friday night when Kim Warnick (there goes that name again) tried to help me realize yet another of my dumb dreams. For months now, and especially since I learned that William Reid recently moved to West Seattle, I've been threatening to form a Jesus and Mary Chain cover band, featuring Warnick and Adam Green on guitar and drums, respectively. Friday night, after a few cocktails, Kim and Rebecca from Billy Shook were kind enough to attempt to teach me how to play bass (naturally) in order to get me one step closer to my goal. Well, after a weekend in the hospital and several Vicodin and whatever the hell those muscle-relaxers are called (along with wacked-out dreams where I was living with Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins and their kids and a couple of chimps dressed in waiter suits, and dating a guy who owned the cutest penguin, which sat on a barstool and cried ice-cube tears, à la Tennessee Tuxedo), I am now trying to write this column with a fucked-up back, thanks to the heaviest bass ever, a hazy mind, and a shamed ego. Writers don't rock, damn it! Anyway, I've enlisted a few gossip-mongers to help me finish this week's It's My Party.
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Kerri Harrop said that the aforementioned Twilight Exit was overrun with hippies, ponytailed sensitive guys, and all-around sandal-wearers this past Sunday, singing every bad ballad one could think of. Chris from the Briefs was giving it his all, as was John from the Recursers and celeb photographer Curt Doughty, among others. Yet some sensitive ponytail guy sang, FOR REAL, that retarded "Hmmmm, Hmmmm, Hmmmm, Hmmmm" song by the Crash Test Dummies, for chrissakes! This must not occur again. It is up to you to stop it. I'd do it myself if I weren't as lame as a doorman at the Cha-Cha, walking with the aid of a stick and throwing painkillers down my throat every six hours. And once and for all: NO, you can't have any.