Hoola Rakers

Just a short note today, as we flit between the day job and ways to get out of the day job. But we wanted to prop something before it got cold. We spent an odd couple of hours at Galapagos on Saturday, essentially because we were looking for an appropriate encapsulation of Williamsburg for the visiting limeys. We'd ruthlessly stomped upon a proposal to go belly dancing in the East Village, so our initial response to paying a door tax to a Victoriana-clad freak was not good. But this time we were stomped.

Thought we'd get away with nursing some Brookies by the pool. Were mildly titilated by the pasty-clad strippers that peeled to the skronk at the back of the bar. And then the freaks started bearing down on us, a column of burly drummers, with a glitter-encrusted pair of majordomos. And a hairy geetar-player who might have been good in the background of the New Kingdom album.

And then out came the hula-hoops, not for the first or the last time, apparently. They were very good and wigged out very nicely to the jam-musik, and we even headbanged a tad to the music. But we have two slight niggles - the smell of the performers during a frenzied hoop-sesh being something to take in, and the unfortunate tendency of the performers to occasionally smack the front rows upside the head in their enthusiasm. Yes, we know that we did slightly change the seating plan, but we still think cutesome companion, who suffered from a couple of bumps, as well as being dragged onstage, deserves a medal.

Well, they deserve more, so if you are reading cutesome companion, we are very sorry for our demeanor last night, we are truly grateful and honored to be a part of your life, we will try to be more responsible, and we hope for your understanding and forgiveness. You are amazing.