From Double to quintuple

For some reason, I felt like I was on really great drugs all night last night. And until the end of the evening, there was nothing to support this theory. No girl, no dance-off, no weed, no extacy, no nothing.

Great music though.

First stop: the Australian Pink Floyd show. There's something strange about a bunch of men in their 40s recreating note-for-note the music that someone else wrote. But there's something almost noble about a band recreating a real pink floyd show, down to the lazer lights and the inflatable animals, and sounding JUST LIKE FLOYD. I mean, close your eyes (hell, keep 'em open: the lights are fantastic and no one remembers what any of those guys look like) and you're at a floyd show in 77, except that concert security sucks nowadays and the hippie in front of you is 50 and fat instead of 25 and topless. But, whoa! I've seen a ton of great sing-alongs, but I don't think anything has ever beaten the one-two-three knockout punch of "Wish You Were Here"/"Another Brick in the Wall (pt II)"/"Comfortably Numb." So great that I was happy to stay, thinking I'd miss part of...

Stop two: The el rey, where Old 97s went on an hour late and propelled through "Barrier Reef" (with the oh-so-clever chorus "what's so great/about the barrier reef/what's so fine about art") and "The New Kid" (who's "got my girl/the girl I used to have...") Yeah, hearing "Rollerskate Skinny" was kind of hard for the part of me that's letting go, but, hey, I believe in Love. And it once believed in me. Plus, Rachel Bilson from "the O.C." was there. I tried to dance with her. No luck. I may have tried harder, but, hey, look outside: there's Steve!

Stop three: Disney Concert Hall, for what was billed (to me) as the industry party of the week. Er. James Lavelle playing to me, Keir, Celeste, and a bunch of people who looked like interns at Interscope? not that I'm a player, but I at least expected to see Bronson there. Cool: A DJ set in the Disney hall. Not cool? $6.00 beers. No wonder no one was there: even power-players appreciate an open bar.

Well, the bar shut down at 1. Which meant one thing:

Stop 4: St. Nicks. The hotness was not at the level promised by Jenn S., but that's OK: I nursed a beer, barged in on Kevin's game for a bit, watched two kids get kicked out, and thought about grilled cheese. But ended up at

Stop five: Swingers, where I swing-danced with a girl who could have cared less, played "Range Life" on the Jukebox, and ate the most unhealthy thing possible.

It felt good. And was a reminder: No one (no one!) has more fun than us.