Friday, meet Monday

Oh. My. Goodness gracious.

Well, Metromix held its first ever party at the Avalon's Club 82 on Friday. It'd had been a steep but awakening journey on the rest-deprived path toward our launch, and we were ready to get silly.

The esteemed Scott Toodlewinks vonSterlinghoffer (aka our bitchin' music editor) had reserved a bottle of BevMo's finest pear cider, Babychams, just for the occasion. We cracked it open, high fived, and passed it around like teenagers before ducking inside. The next thing I knew, Amir was dancing onstage.

No, we didn't drink this in the parking lot. We wouldn't do that. 

Inside, Mr. George Ducker gets his vodka on

Scott, Amir and I bond, as tipsy people often do.

And then...things escalate:

Faithful comrade Gemini tries to keep it together

And I spy a wonderous mullet: 

Saturday, I took a break and hit the road for the weekend, staying at a mountain cabin, and swimming all alone in the American River. (For faithful Ward-on-the-Street readers: I was not attacked by mermaids.)

As for your Monday evening, I predict awesomeness as Eskimohunter wraps up thier residency at Spaceland, with the wildly attractive and powerhouse duo of the Pity Party opening.

The Pity Party, objects of our sycophantic obsession:

Also, karaoke is going down at the Cha Cha (I've been meaning to update my makeout pictures,) and the Madonnalicious event is at La Cita. Patrons are urged to don their favorite Madonna identity, and I'd have to go, hands down, with the Marie Antoinette horsecrap that she wore to the Grammy's that one year. Hands. Down.