Luigi's Fungarden is neither a garden, or fun. For all intents and purposes it's place where they serve shitty pizza and shitty beer to midtown hipsters with an over grown storage closet for the aforementioned hipsters to play their shitty pseudo punk rock for $5 a head.
It's the sort of place that 10 years ago I would have gone to because it was cheap and they didn't card, not because any actual, factual fun was happening. I never had much of an affinity for this whole scene. I liked punks to be actual punks. I liked my rivet heads to be...well, rivet-ey. Don't get me wrong, I'm the girl you can take anywhere because I'll always have a good time, it's just that there's always been two kinds of fun in my little world.
There's the fun of seeing a band you are actually a fan of, have purchased music from, and are genuinely excited to see. The sweaty ear to ear grin of being in the presence of talented people you respect and admire.
And then there's the fun of getting hammered with your friends, fucking with people you don't know, and taking in some of the finer specimens available for people watching all in one place.
It would have been nice if last night's excursion into midtown had produced EITHER one. I went down out of a guilt and obligation to a dying friendship. The death of which is breaking my heart in cold methodical way that I don't care to bore anyone with further. ANYWAY, Said friend was in a band 4 years ago and I never missed a show. It was good times, their music is decent enough to listen to, and I liked all the band members, and I always got in and drank for free. Solid good times. They haven't played in 3 years. In that intervening time a lot has changed.
I did not get in for free, and was told the wrong time to show up. There was no free boozes, or free eats. I got there half way through the set, and was surrounded by newer friends most of whom I didn't know, or had only met once. 20 minutes of crappy punk rock, and 40 minutes of strained conversation later I decided to go home. [note to post hipster midtown yuppie scum: you know what says "that's funny" more effectively than saying "that's funny."? Laughter. Pretentious assholes.]
There was one gem in the trip though. I guess, if it can be called that.
The one who got away, the ghost haunting my steps and pervading my dreams, seems to be materializing. For whatever reason this is acting as the glue for a friendship I don't care to lose.
It's the sort of place that 10 years ago I would have gone to because it was cheap and they didn't card, not because any actual, factual fun was happening. I never had much of an affinity for this whole scene. I liked punks to be actual punks. I liked my rivet heads to be...well, rivet-ey. Don't get me wrong, I'm the girl you can take anywhere because I'll always have a good time, it's just that there's always been two kinds of fun in my little world.
There's the fun of seeing a band you are actually a fan of, have purchased music from, and are genuinely excited to see. The sweaty ear to ear grin of being in the presence of talented people you respect and admire.
And then there's the fun of getting hammered with your friends, fucking with people you don't know, and taking in some of the finer specimens available for people watching all in one place.
It would have been nice if last night's excursion into midtown had produced EITHER one. I went down out of a guilt and obligation to a dying friendship. The death of which is breaking my heart in cold methodical way that I don't care to bore anyone with further. ANYWAY, Said friend was in a band 4 years ago and I never missed a show. It was good times, their music is decent enough to listen to, and I liked all the band members, and I always got in and drank for free. Solid good times. They haven't played in 3 years. In that intervening time a lot has changed.
I did not get in for free, and was told the wrong time to show up. There was no free boozes, or free eats. I got there half way through the set, and was surrounded by newer friends most of whom I didn't know, or had only met once. 20 minutes of crappy punk rock, and 40 minutes of strained conversation later I decided to go home. [note to post hipster midtown yuppie scum: you know what says "that's funny" more effectively than saying "that's funny."? Laughter. Pretentious assholes.]
There was one gem in the trip though. I guess, if it can be called that.
The one who got away, the ghost haunting my steps and pervading my dreams, seems to be materializing. For whatever reason this is acting as the glue for a friendship I don't care to lose.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
it sounds like a place where they go just because they can. I'm really not into those types of places