Aside from Jeanne trying—unsuccessfully! Quelle embarrassment! —to pimp us out to two different Stroke 9ers, nothing much happened. Except we all went back to the bus and Luke bit us on the arm, which we liked, and then focused his attention on us for the most intense five seconds we've experienced in years. His eyes pinned us like a pile driver from Stone Cold Steve Austin, except not sweaty. We hadn't even thought he was good-looking, but it just goes to show you: some men are danger in a bottle, and somebody should bring back chastity belts because even someone as sophisticated and worldly as ourself could be susceptible. Then he went back and talked to the same very plain girl he'd been talking to the whole time we were on the bus, while everyone in the band wished desperately that we would stop our infernal hanging out. But they were nice. Oh, their music? Very au courant, by which we mean loud. And, um, rawking. Solid B: they're the next Blink 182, you know.
For DeeDeeRamone's triumphant return to Club Mesa (complete with a chick bassist/sometime vocalist with hair like Joey's: eeeew!), we spent most of the time looking quite fetching and playing pool because the tunes were both uninspired ("Sheena Is a Punk Rocker"? Daring selection!) and un-good-sounding. DeeDee's not much of a singer. However, the place was jammed with local faves like Dan the Bull from Hate Club, who hasn't changed a whit in 20 years (we hear). And we'd like to announce that a local punk-rock legend, having had his ass handed to him on a platter in a series of games upon which we got to name our forfeit, has to baby-sit our li'l Citizen of the Month (that's right, fuckers! Our boy is Citizen of the Month. And we want one of those goddamn bumper stickers now!) next time we feel like going out with our sister. Also, he has to shave his legs. Therefore, despite the presence of DeeDee Ramone, we'd have to give the show an A.