The Scene: A Review of Outlaws
Recently I blogged about Tyler having no scene what-so-ever. Well, that is not entirely true; Tyler has a scene, but it is a bad one. In fact, I wouldn’t even call it a scene. It would be a quasi-scene, a pseudo scene, but sadly, a scene none-the-less.
Let’s begin, shall we? Outlaws, located off of highway 110 South (like you are going to Whitehouse), is on the lower end of the “fabulous scale.” Its appearance is that of those rickety, run down, down-by-the-wharf gangster warehouses. Ya know, the kind where they take you so Tony-the-Duck-Billed-Platypus-Scravelli can get you all gussied up to “sleep with the fishes.” But Outlaws outer appearance does have one spiffy feature: it has a big purple neon sign say that says “Outlaws!” Wow!
The parking lot is not paved. In fact, it is not even a lot. It is a grassy field that accommodates maybe 2 cars at the most. How they cram 150 on it baffles me. But that is enough about its appearance. Let us move inside the building and talk about the tragedies within.
What makes Outlaws so tragic is the music. Don’t get me wrong now, the do play some good music, but there is no flow or coherent transition between songs. It’s like, one minute you are busting a ghetto-fabulous groove to Lil’ Kim’s “How Many Licks?” and the next thing you know it’s some crap like “Wang Chung.” Honestly, WTF? I think the DJ used to be in the “National Sing Really Badly Choir.” I say this because he likes to sing over the music. But, it’s not like he is singing up in the DJ booth and you can occasionally hear him during the low beats of a song. No no no, he jams the mic down his throat and warbles like a songbird. His voice to me is almost as irritating as table full of giggling 16-year-old girls at the local Red Lobster. Not quite as irritating mind you, but close enough.
The patrons of Outlaws are even more tragic. You will never find a more odd or mix-matched bunch in your life. Well, you might find some in Nebraska or one of those other “N” states. But we aren’t in Nebraska so I won’t harp on it. For instance, if you ever go to Outlaws, you will inevitably cross paths with “Tambourine Dyke.” She is a colorful lesbian that carries a tambourine with her AT ALL TIMES and slaps it to the beat of the music. So with the DJ singing poorly over the mic and “Tambourine Dyke” “turning the beat around,” you will undoubtedly loose all appreciation for the music you have come to know and love. A lot of Goth people go there, and I personally never understood Goth. Not that I think there is anything wrong with it, I just don’t understand it. I mean, if I am going to worship the dark overlord, I will do it in the comfort of my own Budget Lodge motel room, not the local club.
“The King of Outlaws.” Guess who that is, folks? It’s me. Yes, just recently, I went there and won the “King of Outlaws” award. My grand prize was getting drunk at their expense. It was cosmically fabulous. This award is given to the most lovable, social, and popular creature at Outlaws. What can I say? *blushes* Not that I got a nifty crown or spiffy sash or anything (cheap bastards). But for the next year I am officially the “King of Outlaws.” This really isn’t part of the review; I just thought I would throw that in for self-glorification.
So, all in all, Outlaws sucks. Everyone that goes there sucks worse, except for me. As the King, I am exempt from all sucky status. I seriously do not suggest anyone go to Outlaws, unless you are thoroughly liquored up, as I always am, or you want to go somewhere to make fun of tragically tragic people. Then by all means, it’s well worth it. So, stay away from Outlaws, my children; it’s the devil.
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