Bland Pizza And The Smiths: The Worst Sunday Night Ever

What…is with…the hair.

I technically posted a “mix” on Friday when I compiled my Top 10 Albums of 2010 (So Far), which means you’re going to have to read through my insufferable writing today. Now, I know what some of you are thinking: “If I wanted to read what some asshat has to say I’d go read an actual blog, not one that lures in visitors with the promise free music.” I get it. I feel the same way. I don’t even read my own blog, let alone a website maintained by somebody else who just blathers on about what goes on in his or her life. Granted, I’m not stupid enough to be coerced into looking at something just because there’s an MP3 attached to it, but then again I’ve never claimed to be as dumb as you are. Wait a minute — I’m sorry. I should know by now that it’s not good writing etiquette to call your audience dumb. I keep forgetting about that. Sorry guys, you’re not [all] dumb.

I went to dinner at that place Delancey on Sunset tonight. It’s kind of near the Arclight, next to the Mission Cantina (which has some excellent small plates). The New York-style pizza there wasn’t so good. Nicci said it was “mild,” but I prefer the term bland. It’s harsher. It reflects my disappointment better. I think “bland” is the way to go when describing that pizza. Nicci got drunk on one beer (Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout) after claiming she hadn’t eaten all day. She wound up taking notes on what I was saying about the food, and giggling until she got the hiccups. What can I say? She’s a cheap date.

As we were leaving to eat a friend alerted us that he was working at the Music Box tonight. Nicci told me it was “Smiths / Morrissey Night,” which gave me huge douchechills as I recalled the last one of those things I went to at the stupid hipster dance night in Echo Park. But when we showed up at the club and I saw the word “convention,” I became excited. What the hell do Smiths fans have to convene about, anyway? Aren’t they all reclusive wusses and afraid of going out in public?

Apparently Smiths fans love going out in public…if it’s to celebrate Morrissey. We walked inside to see music videos projected onto a huge screen as that awful voice billowed through the entire club. Nearly everyone there was clad in black. One of the first people I chose to look at was wearing a t-shirt that said, “And if a double-decker bus crashes into us to die by your side would be a heavenly way to die.” Oh man, the hair on some of those people…it was kind of amazing. It took only five minutes to realize some things about this convention. First of all, there were three social groups that accounted for at least 90% of the audience: Rockabilly girls, “Club kids,” and Mexicans. Honestly, those were the three groups I would least expect to be totally obsessed with the Smiths, but our friend in-the-know says they come out to every Smiths night.

Nicci wanted to dance, but no one there was really dancing. The scene on the floor of the Music Box was like a wall of pansies swaying to-and-fro like a zombie army on Quaaludes. I know, I know. Using zombie-like and Quaalude-like in the same sentence is not a mistake. It really was that…sleepy-dreamy. It was about the queerest thing I’ve seen in years. Or so I thought. A few minutes later two guys making out with each other nearly tripped over me and fell down the stairs from the balcony level to the ground floor. They were that into it. I guess if Smiths fans have any positive character traits it’s that they’re committed.

Once the MC started calling people up to the stage to play Morrissey Name That Tune I decided I’d had enough. I’d had enough of the dudes in all black with feathered hair swaying like dainty flowers in a soft breeze. I’d had enough of fat girls with blue hair and tattoos talking loudly about…(I wasn’t listening, if I had I’d probably be blowing my brains out right now). I’d had enough of people on the roof buying Smiths bootleg DVDs, while dealers tried to sell Depeche Mode 45s for only the band’s gayest songs (You’re probably thinking, “Wait a minute, Depeche Mode had straight songs?” Well, they recorded a handful between ’86 and 98′, but yeah, for the most part you’re right — sorry Matt). So we decided to leave just as the Name That Tune winners were claiming their prizes (Morrissey box sets!).

I drove back to Nicci’s and who was sitting outside but the guy who’d invited us! He’d left us alone in that stupid club with those losers and hadn’t even warned us that he was leaving. What a bag of dicks that guy is. I hope he’s reading this. He’s a bag of dicks. He made me listen to “That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore” when I could have been at home listening to fucking Algerian Proto-Rai or something. Thank God we didn’t have to stay for the Smiths cover band. I might have hung myself in the venue’s bathroom.

By the way, has anyone else noticed the murals on the walls at the Music Box lately? I’m speaking, of course, about the images of the guys with the flutes stuck up their asses. Weird, right? And yet…so perfectly apt for a Smiths / Morrissey event.