Out to Manray with J. R. + (No* + Ke*). Before this, some yummy Indian food, and before that, the hunt for fashionable attire. J.R. brought along a fairly convincing wig of long black hair and coerced me to wear it (haha, like I ever need coercing to do stuff). I looked eeevil! Or, just generally cool and studly. Speaking of coercing, J. R. was required to cover her shoes in black duct tape upon entering, because they weren’t natively black enough. (Considering the culture promoted here, this attention to detail seemed a little unusual.) Got in just in time to catch Malice In Leatherland (band one of No*’s friends is in) cranking it in the center room. J.R. convinced me to dance in the blinky room to the right (on the basis that bad dancing doesn’t look so bad at 3FPS…yay strobelights). Both of us tried throughout the night not to snicker each time we saw the guy wearing a small (marble bag?) over his hoo-hah, and little else. (What, this meets spec, but nonblack shoes don’t? “Sorry sir, you’re wearing way too much pasty white for a goth club…here’s your ducttape…”) At some point someone whipped out (no pun intended) purple LED whips, which got me spending a large percentage of available brain-time on novel, power harvesting clothing-embeddable blinky things. Maybe in sporadic, nondeterministic ways, just to mess with people (“did I just see that guy’s shirt flash out of the corner of my eye, or am I seeing things?”), or maybe synchronized with the actual beat (easy), or capable of displaying a realtime spectrum analysis (not as easy; juice hungry). Was mentally working out an addressable 2-wire interface for individual nodes (LEDs) on a chain or belt, when closing time was announced. Closing at 2:09am, wtf? She’s right, nightlifey stuff in Boston closes too early. But did manage to snag free demo CDs of the band before being scooped out the door.
Me looking devious
QOTDs:
“Cycling isn’t a sport… it’s more like a leisure activity.” -Ke*
“You’re a leisure activity.” -No*
“Fine, I’ll just have to go and lick them myself.” – J. R., on the
question of whether licking a tennis ball would leave your tongue
covered in fuzz.
“Dancing…It’s a vertical expression of a horizontal desire” – J. R.
quoting her mom quoting who knows
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