Some funky beats squawk, and we transition from a shot of the outside of a club to the inside. People dance in that awkward but not totally uncool "I'm an extra" way as we dolly up to the DJ booth, where Drain and an anonymous Xander Harris-esque type flirt, albeit a deadpan, monotone flirting. The light is very unkind to Drain, and DJ boy looks as bedraggled as Yawn. The DJ says he's "only big in Japan," and Drain parries with, "I'm only big in my cousin Fred's house." He says he has "both her records," and she's like, "Great, this coming from the guy that has both of everyone's records." He says he sampled the bass-line from "Wired Tired" to a Cornelius remix he did (um, the Cornelius who did "Mighty Real"? I bet) and she's like, "Without my permission?" But in a tease-y, flirty way. Drain would give this guy permission to remove the gold from her teeth, I can tell. I think it's the lying on her back with her legs in the air that's tipping me off. They wrangle some more; he offers to take her out to dinner, she agrees and says that will be her payment for the bass-line sampling, but then remembers the band has to drive to Flagstaff that night. Damn! I remember once trying to seduce the singer from a band that had to leave and drive to Baltimore that same night. Damn. There is nothing more frustrating than interrupted action, even if it's only in your mind. They both whip out their tour itineraries and compare. Nothing's compatible, but the lame flirting continues. Finally, Drain gives him her e-mail address, "Janewantsyou@theproblem.fake." Yawn pops his scraggly head over the DJ booth and is like, are we going to play or what? Wicca-Wicca, nice to meet you. Hee. Drain drags herself away in her bizarre PVC boob-strangling top and takes the stage as Yawn introduces her/makes fun of her. Hotty starts banging on the drums. Quick like popcorn, we cut right away.
Driving down the road in the Budny van, Yawn and Hotty quibble over whether DJs are musicians or not, and if it's cool that Drain is hot for the DJ guy. Well, Yawn rants; Hotty drives. Drain takes off her giant headphones and makes a speech about how the guys get laid all the time, coast to coast, but if she even looks at a piece of ass, the cock-block is employed by Yawn. Yes, that's called the double standard. Once Mark Sandman (R.I.P.) was hitting on me, and yes, I was in a relationship at the time, so I probably shouldn't have entertained the notion, but yeah, we were flirting, and guess how many dudes came up to me and asked me how my boyfriend was? It's fucking rude. End cock-block now! Hotty is like, that's because you two dated. Are we supposed to care about this dynamic? I guess so. Drain offers that DJ Boy said he liked Yawn's music, and Yawn is like, "I don't care. What did he say he liked?" Oy. Thank God for the overturned car in the road and the body thrown from the wreckage and the eerie back-lit smoke. Since the cell phone doesn't work, Drain offers to stay with the accident victim and lets the guys go for help.
Since the dawn of time, these credits have sucked. You can't bust on them enough; you can't swallow them.