Update: Violet and I both recounted the evening without peeking at each others’ posts, white-girl-Roshomon style. Here is Violet’s. Mine is below. [originally posted February 3, 11pm]

Last night, the inimitable Violet and I did it up on what we dubbed “The Strip” — a short patch of businesses on Main Street in our small Southern California town. Not downtown, but not as far as the Mall. Kind of near the car-washing place. Right between the used office furniture place and Curves. No. You’ve gone too far. Look for the oddly-strung Christmas lights and the sidewalk littered with cigarette butts. Now you’re on “The Strip!”

After a noodle soup meal accompanied by mai-tais served in pint glasses, we wandered next store to a nightspot known for its comfy red vinyl booths, blatant disregard for non-smoking ordinances, and the blasting of the rawk, from the Maiden to the Zep and back again.

The live music began around 10. The young white male lead singer warmed up the crowd by exhorting the “ladies” in the audience to (I paraphrase here) take off their shirts and display their breasts for the duration of the show. They then plunged into a Red Hot Chili Peppers song. Then another one. For they were, unbeknown to us until that moment, a Peppers cover band.

Our retreat was so hasty that only a pink, Hambox-and-Violet-shaped cloud remained as we headed into the rainy night. We couldn’t even stay for the Rage Against the Machine cover band. Next time, boys. Next time.

You know, I’ve been rethinking the “offer” made by that lead singer. I think that we ladies thwarted the band’s ability to really reach their creative heights — all because there was no one who offered to disrobe for the sake of rock. For the sake of ART!

Side notes: Violet and I amused ourselves throughout the evening with Sparklepony (pictured), temporary tattoos, and two finger puppets. Fitting recreation for a night on “The Strip!”

More note: Remember, commenting ability has been restored its former glory.