Sars: It all started when my friends' band, Daytona, sent me an email saying they had a gig at Brownie's in the East Village…with FLICKERSTICK on the bill. I immediately forwarded the email to Mr. S all "DUDE, WE'RE SO SEEING THIS SHIT" and then dashed over to the ticketing site to get tickets.
Fast forward to the night of the show. I'm on a downtown bus, and I get a call on my cell from Alex Richmond, reporting on her show experience when she saw them in Philly the previous evening. Among the gossip I gleaned from the lovely and talented Ms. Richmond: 1) the entire band is short, 2) Rex is now going out with Rayshele from HARLOW (or was, or something -- their deal is sort of unclear at this point), 3) FLICK's manager rounds up hotties from the crowd and pimps them to the band. Ew. And yet, heh.
Meanwhile, at street level, Mr. Stupidhead runs into FLICK on the street…
Mr. Stupidhead: So I come around the corner from my old apartment, and while I'm heading up Avenue A towards the club, I see Cory, Dominic, and Rex walking in a flying wedge down the street, just like they do in all those slo-mo shots on the show. Sure enough, they're all tiny, except for Rex, who's totally tall and gangly. So, I get that feeling in my stomach that I always get around Los Famosos, and the first thing I think to say is "Yeah, FLICKERSTICK! ROCK!" They seem totally unimpressed, but Dominic gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder (which really hurts, because Dominic's arms are huge).
So, I get to Brownie's, and start waiting for Sars. As I'm waiting, I survey the crowd. There are a lot of thirty-something guys in tight Armani shirts on cell phones, and oodles of attractive young ladies with one common goal: to somehow end up in the tour bus (if you know what I'm saying, and I think you do). A few minutes go by and I'm all, "Not, Sars, where are you?" But she eventually shows up, we get in line to get our tickets, and we head inside. And by "inside," I mean "crammed into the farthest corner from the stage possible."
Sars: It's packed. Packed. There's a strangely large contingent of Jersey Guido types there, but mostly it's betties, and the betties are kitted out big-time -- halter tops, skin-tight black pants, pints of lip gloss, blinding amounts of body glitter, the whole rock-skank deal. Given that a lot of these girls look like book editors or buyers for Sotheby's -- the kind of girls who usually wear twin sets and pearls -- it's kind of weird. And I'm wearing a baggy "Summit Diner" t-shirt and black khakis, so I don't think I'll end up on the bus (if you know what I'm saying, and I think you do).
Anyway, the crowd is totally pushing towards the stage, so Mr. S and I manage to score a wobbly table and two wobbly bar stools. It's about ten billion degrees in the club. We're drinking beers. A Jackie Jr. walks up to me, and I think it's one of the forum folks, but it's actually a guy who wants to tell me that his dad used to eat at the Summit Diner every morning. Then another Jackie Jr. stands in front of me just as FLICKERSTICK takes the stage, and when I raise my lighter and flick it Styx-style to pay tribute to the band, I almost light his gel on fire. He turns around to glare at me and I'm like, "Hi. Dork-out. Sorry, dude."