Sometimes New York makes you feel like an athlete. Ok, strike that. What a stupid way to start an entry. Let me explain; last night felt a bit like a marathon - constant action, the need to push past limits and total satisfaction at the finish line. What began as a night with little plans became a test of endurance. It began with some post work emailing from the comfort of my bed. This was interrupted by a phone call from Captain Cape Cod who invited me tag-a-long to The Warlocks show at the new Avenue B hotspot Scenic.

As I rolled up to the venue, the store front was cluttered with familiar faces. I ran into Paul aka Chasing the Dream who was chatting up Elliot. We cruised inside to catch a beer before heading downstairs to see some rock. Cape Codder, Yalan, Leslie, Paul and I tucked into the back corner next to the bar. Unfortunately you can't see a fucking thing at a packed Scenic, but they made up for it with some solid sound. The Warlocks set up the show to prep the press for their upcoming release. This meant there were heaps of familiar faces in the crowd. It was great to see all the beautiful people diving in face first to some west coast psychedelic. The band has the unique ability to transplant its listeners to another time and place. Thankfully I was sipping a diet Sparks that helped snap me back to reality. As the band finished up their set (and the tequila shot Leslie bought us settled), Beach and I stepped back into the night.

The next checkpoint was the Mercury Lounge where another LA band was playing. The four abusers of eyeliner go by the name TSAR. I haven't a clue what it means so don't ask. Mark filled me in on these guys during one of our shifts at Webster, but I had no idea what to expect. The narcissistic boys had a giant sign blinking their name the entire set to ensure we wouldn't forget who played. It wasn't necessary as they were a bit unforgettable. Now, this isn't to say they were good, but they were memorable. It was fairly straight forward glam doused punk rock, (what more would you expect from Los Angeles). The lead singer was also a bit striking - think Skeletor if he traded his purple tights for a black t-shirt and some better nail polish. Some folks think this band will be the next big thing, but for this guy the jury is still out. It's nothing I'd pay to see, but you could probably fool a bunch of teenagers into thinking these guys are the tits.

Toward the end of their set I got a call from Christie. We met up near Katz, locked her bike up and proceeded to get a frozen margarita. After the tasty and totally unnecessary beverage, we slipped into Pianos to check out the latest addition to North Street Records, Trick and the Heartstrings. After saying hello to Karibomb, Chris and the North Street Crew and suffering through some of The Fame's set, we slid up front to hang with Gabby and Ian. We were about to get severely hit by a funk storm.

The last time I saw Trick and the Heartstrings was with Noah at Delancey. It was an unimpressive show that left me with mixed feelings. Last night, the final night of their month long residency, completely flipped the switch. This band is going to be a favorite among all you hipster elite. Well, I can see the pack dividing in some sort of holier-than-thou ambivalence, but you should just succumb to the pure dance-ability of the jams these three art (read: fart) majors pump out. Dressed like a gang of kids who never leave South Bedford Avenue, they worked through a few songs on their recently pressed debut EP (buy it on North Street) along with a bunch of other tracks that lead me to believe these kids listened to a lot of The Police on their way to Prince concerts during their childhood years. They have amazing stage presence that includes synchronized dance steps and a lanky drummer who looks comfortably numb (praise be the Scissor Sisters) while beating around the kit. It might have been the large amount of alcohol coursing through my veins, but I had a fucking rad time. The packed room would probably agree.

After the show we, hung around for a minute and got to chat up Rosie. The night ended with me stumbling home and desperately trying to blog about the evening, but Time Warner has decided to dick 186 over. Fuckers.

Thanks to Leah I just scored cottage cheese for breakfast. Also, I love you but I've chosen Sean Bones is going down hard tonight.