Through With Bars

Now we only eat guitars

We hit Avalon on 19th Street, which had opened to a madding crowd the night before. It was very LA-cool, but I think any bar called Avalon should be not black and orange but sea-green, with mermaids and hanging beads and sea chanteys. Of course, I think every bar should be sea-green with mermaids and hanging beads, which is why I can't get any investors to fund my bar. The Blue Avalon and the Lemon Ginger Drop were fantastic (some kind of sweet-potato vodka), and the bouncer was nice, talking about how he likes his girlfriend's ex's mom because "she's a Christian, and she's down-to-earth." We had to go across the street, though, to see Smile's last show. And who can blame them for calling it quits? They're not 14. They don't stand a chance. Ten years after they started, became the next big thing, got signed, and played the party celebrating the Weekly's inaugural issue (eight years ago, if you're counting), they played one last show for a crowd that lined up out the door, while Detroit booker Chris Fahey yelled that there were spots left only for those with pre-sold tickets.

Music is for the young, for people who don't have to be reminded what it felt like when you didn't pay rent, who even now have to change into their sluttier outfits after they've left the house. Everyone else gets to open a restaurant and pay the bills.


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