Barb and I get there fairly early, I think, 'cause no else but the band and Fran seems to be around. Or maybe just no one's going to show up to the show, you never know with Eric's fuckin' band. I really don't want to be here, but Barb was determined to come and that's what 'commitment' is all about, they tell me. I think maybe it's that Barb's sleeping with Eric, but damned if I'm going to say anything.

Fucking rock stars. Creamed Corn sucks, we all know that, but everyone wants to treat them like rock stars, which then makes them rock stars. You know, he's fucking Deb every night, we all know that too. Carl writes about them in that zine like they're the next Smashing Pumpkins, but no one has the courage to just sit down and say, "You know what? Cardigan-wearing noise-art-pop-jangly-guitar bands are tired. And you're not doing anything else that hasn't already been perfected about ten years ago." No one says this because everyone wants free passes when the band gets signed to Matador and opens for Pavement. And I don't say anything 'cause... well, I want the passes too.

Barb asks if I want the usual. I nod, sigh, slump my shoulders, go over to the ratty couches and sit down. I watch Barb stand at the bar, watch the way her ass shifts in her pants, think about what I was just watching that ass do about an hour ago, think about how much I'd like to be doing that right now, drink a beer, watch Dawson's Creek and go to fucking bed.

Man.