Well, we tried to grind
Aug. 7th, 2005 12:02 amOmaha and I managed to score a great babysitter Thursday evening and so, dropping our other mutual dates (thanks so much, you two, for your own understanding) we went out to dinner at a fine Thai restaurant called Thai 65 down in the University District, then headed over to Tubs for an hour of soaking and talking.
There are few things nicer than an hour alone with Omaha, especially in a hot tub. It's so nice, in fact, that I'm considering buying one for our house. It would fit nicely under the deck, although given the amount of crud that falls between the boards maybe that's not such a good idea. Still, we were able to relax and discuss a lot of the stuff that's been going on without worrying about the kidlet wandering in on us. That is always such a worry. After an hour or so, we figured they'd forgotten about us and we were turning into giant pink raisins, so we got out even before the "courtesy call" and headed out to the Grind.
A message to Grind DJs: you cannot substitute obscurity for quality, nor volume for selection. I don't care if the crap you put on is from an obscure German mixing group, the head of which can trace his lineage back to an all-night sodomy session with the lead bassist from The Sisters of Mercy who somehow got his hands on an unreleased demo tape of Shreikback's lead keyboardist playing Madonna songs at his kid's fifth birthday party and managed to mix all this into a song about death and rage and hate and back it up with sounds from a pig farm on culling day: it ain't music worth fucking to. And making it so loud that my ears start collapsing doesn't make me want to stay, or return, ever. Stop playing crap that will impress the other DJs with your ability to troll Usenet and play shit we can dance and fuck with.
Besides, the back room was full and booked solid. So after saying hello and goodbye, Omaha and I went home and enjoyed each other's company further. Much better.
There are few things nicer than an hour alone with Omaha, especially in a hot tub. It's so nice, in fact, that I'm considering buying one for our house. It would fit nicely under the deck, although given the amount of crud that falls between the boards maybe that's not such a good idea. Still, we were able to relax and discuss a lot of the stuff that's been going on without worrying about the kidlet wandering in on us. That is always such a worry. After an hour or so, we figured they'd forgotten about us and we were turning into giant pink raisins, so we got out even before the "courtesy call" and headed out to the Grind.
A message to Grind DJs: you cannot substitute obscurity for quality, nor volume for selection. I don't care if the crap you put on is from an obscure German mixing group, the head of which can trace his lineage back to an all-night sodomy session with the lead bassist from The Sisters of Mercy who somehow got his hands on an unreleased demo tape of Shreikback's lead keyboardist playing Madonna songs at his kid's fifth birthday party and managed to mix all this into a song about death and rage and hate and back it up with sounds from a pig farm on culling day: it ain't music worth fucking to. And making it so loud that my ears start collapsing doesn't make me want to stay, or return, ever. Stop playing crap that will impress the other DJs with your ability to troll Usenet and play shit we can dance and fuck with.
Besides, the back room was full and booked solid. So after saying hello and goodbye, Omaha and I went home and enjoyed each other's company further. Much better.
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