Lull.

It's the feeling you get when the winds are whipping the shingles off your roof, but you know that the eye is just around the corner. Tonight, after we hit our deadline for this project at work, the hurricane will briefly abate before revving back up to full speed for the extended Halloween weekend. It's going to be a much needed release, let me tell you.

Did I tell you about the time Photogal made me go to a co-worker's party with her in the only section of Chicago whose nightlife is more disturbing than the Lincoln Park bar scene? Yes, Wrigleyville.

We were waiting for a parking attendant to take our keys when some blonde bimbo (and I am not exaggerating with the use of bimbo here) drove up in some skimpy thought of red fabric stretched across breasts that were a gift of scalpel and saline. She turned to us and asked what was going on and Photogal and I just stared, jaws agape, when we realized that her breasts had broken free of her shirt completely without her knowledge. She just jabbered on with those man-made monsters sitting there, nerves shot to hell, and sensation obviously blocked since the evening carried a chill but her nipples betrayed no movement.

And the night went downhill from there.

The party was okay, and I like Photogal's work crew, but it ended with a nervous Photogal entreating one of her co-workers to keep an eye on me while she went to the restroom. While she was gone two late twenty-somethings desperately trying to look like second year sorority sisters, sidled up next to me and attempted to interact with me through a serious of cell-phone conversation asides and general "girly" actions. I sat there gripping the bar, knuckles growing white, actually looking at one of Photogal's ex-boyfriends (who happened to know the co-worker whose birthday we were celebrating) for support.

Finally, I had enough and screamed, "Why don't you two just STOP already! I am NOT interested!"

Both girls registered shock and gathered their things in a half-zombified manner to make their way to the end of the room where the acoustic guitar playing dude was covering LOTS of Springsteen and Pearl Jam. Photogal's ex turned to me and said, "Wow, I think we both found something we can agree on, those girls were terrible." And Photogal's co-workers were tickled pink because they had never witnessed someone say the things they had always wanted to say to people like that.

Why do I tell this story? To prove that the experience was not one of an unchecked Id rampaging through a door unlocked by too much Guinness and Maker's Mark. My proof? At Friday's show at Double Door, I was standing by the merch table talking to some friends when who should sidle up beside me but Mancow. I stood. I stared. I kept my trap shut.

You see, Mancow is probably far more reprehensible to me, but the dude has the freedom to be a douchebag as long as he doesn't try to draw me into his little world. And, to be honest, he did a good job of keeping to himself. The two girls in Wrigleyville were so full of themselves they couldn't comprehend the fact that anything with two legs and a dick would find them anything less than enchanting. When one truly believes that for years and years, one's behavior begins in the realm of "annoying" and progresses to the world of "we never know when to shut the fuck up, because no one has ever told us to before."

This is also why I tend to not get along with most models.

Oh, and the girl in the parking lot. What was her part in this story, you ask?

Comic relief tinged with a touch of tragedy. Gives the story depth, y'know.

__________
Duh.

And for those of you who didn't get it yesterday, the song titles hidden in the post give away who the band really is.

Get your tickets NOW.