This, my friends, is a new column committed to providing our madcap metropolis with compelling tales of intrigue, gravity, sorrow and humor. My goal is simple: to produce a weekly column so cool it'll be difficult to forgive yourself for missing it. Imagine your frustration when your buddies are gathered around the water cooler, the conference table or the corner table at the local pub engaged in debate over something they read in Permanent Lipstick- and there you are, unable to join in because you didn't happen to pick up this week's issue of the Weekly Volcano.

For lack of a more recognizable term, this space is my personal blog of my South Sound adventures at clubs, galleries, restaurants, theaters and my favorite hangouts.  Through my therapeutic ramblings I hope to provide you, my beloved readers, a different look at the South Sound.      

Friday, Aug. 6

I had planned on a Friday night all for me.  You know, a night of self-indulgence.  One during which I'd  give myself a facial or maybe a mud mask, a pedicure, eat a bunch of Godiva ice cream and raspberries for dinner followed by sushi and then wine spritzers for dessert.   Well, I made it to 10:30 p.m. and then succumbed to house madness, the city version of cabin fever.  In 23 minutes flat I had my silky black hair up in a saucy twist, a racy little outfit thrown on and was out the door for a quick hit and run at THE LOFT for $1 shots of tequila and then down to HELL'S KITCHEN in time to catch THE HITCH with my freshly painted metallic blue toenails flashing.  The band was awesome, as always, and BARTENDER CASEY was pouring drinks the way I like my men - tall, strong and stiff.  What came after that? Well, the morning, silly, and fuzzy memories of an after-party and a hot tub.  Excuse me while I stifle my giggles. 

Saturday, Aug. 7

Saturday morning yoga, oh how I love to hate you.  Bikram heated yoga is the absolute best thing for a hangover.  You sweat it out while you stretch out. Afterward I always want an immediate shower, a big fat steak and fresh fruit followed by a half-hour nap and then a couple hours cruising estate sales and antique shops.  But my usual routine was shot to hell by HOTROD-A-RAMA at THE SWISS PUB.  Kicking off at high noon is not really the ideal time slot for a band to perform, but THE CROSSBONES gang roared through their set like it was prime time.  Something about those punk/rockabilly hard bodies just sets me off.  I felt like a girl with the need for a sugar high turned loose in a candy store, and if anyone had bothered to ask me what I was whispering to myself, it would have sounded something like, "I spy a hot guy one, I spy a hot guy two ..." and so on.   After a few more bands, my tour of duty in the beer garden and tipsy roaming of the car show, I headed home to nap on my deck and regroup for the night ahead.  After all, I had pre-funk plans to fuel up with martinis at 9 p.m.  The BLUE OLIVE ULTRA LOUNGE AND BISTRO was begging for a second chance after their grueling grand opening party.  They didn't bother to have mini satellite bars around the place, so everyone had to go through one main bar.  Talk about buzz kill.  Waiting for a drink for an hour blows, so it was shot, shot, drink just to keep the fever up before the hour wait again.  I will say, though, that the PRETTY PEOPLE were out in force at this hip joint along the downtown Tacoma City Waterway, and whoa, I mean freakin' gorgeous when I say pretty.  The ladies were high stylin' and knew it.  The fellas looked like they had washed their shirts in hot and dried 'em on high.  The muscle definition showing through WASHBOARD GUY's shirt made me want to scrub out my laundry on his delicious abdominal area.  This time around the Blue Olive was much better, though still quite busy.  I was dubious at first, but they now make my list of places to hit on a weekly basis.  I'll let you know when the thrill is gone.

Here's a touching note to end on.  I went to RAMPART ARTIST GALLERY during THIRD THURSDAY ART WALK last month for their crazy retro fashion show and ended up hitting on a 20-year-old MODEL GUY.  Thank you, bottle of Merlot, for giving me that added push I totally didn't need.  Can you imagine my chagrin when I saw him grocery shopping with his mom at Metropolitan Market the following week?