After taking an angry, exasperated, fun, healthy sabbatical from Jukeboxin’, weekly drinking, et.al., I didn’t bat my eye at Shotwell’s juke Wednesday night, although I heard they recently revamped the selection. Eh, obsession compulsion over. I’ve got better things to focus on.
Cinco de Mayo, yet another excuse for San Francisco infants to be sloppy at 8:30pm. As I stand back to see the scene of a group of lesbian & ego-vert dancers drunkenly running around, pooling and putting their legs over their heads, I notice, “Hey, I’m standing next to the jukebox, maybe I should peruse the selection.”
My finger…about to hit the arrow…for the first time…in months…
When a horrendously high, tall white guy in a tee-shirt with mung at the corner of his mouth pops up and says “what are you going to play?”
I’m all “eh, probably nothing.”
“Yeah, I mean, I wish this was internet cause you can choose exactly what song you want.”
Me: “No! That’s the end as we know it.”
Him: “What do you mean?”
Me: “There’s no style! It takes away any kind of personal touch!”.
I forget what the guy said after that, cause I was admiring my new cute haircut in his glassy eyes. But then my friend started to open up his wallet to be all “and on that note, let’s play some tunes so you have material.”
I’m all “Nah, let’s get out of here, I have all the material I need.”
