Shows I Missed

I was stuck elsewhere, deejaying for the kind of people who request Kanye every other song. At the end of the gig, some sorority-type offered me cocaine, which I respectfully declined. It’s hard enough to be a gangster without the off-white drugs.

There comes a time in every growing boy’s life when certain needs overtake his underfurred loins. For me, those needs included the obsessive avoidance of political events, no matter how vaguely patriotic, no matter how closely the represented politics aligned with my own. It makes me feel like Hitler Youth. Yes, if Obama is elected it will remove a great veil of cynicism that has cloaked my brow for far too long, but it will never give birth to an interest in political music. If you aren’t Woody Guthrie or Public Enemy, shut the fuck up. 

Instead of attending the show, I nested in front of my glowing monitor and window shopped for elegant Italian switchblades. It was deeply fulfilling.

Wasn’t into the idea of spending the evening surrounded by a gaggle of entitled white kids who look just like me but smile less. I bet the music was good, but I’ll never know. Instead, I know how many doughnuts I can eat in one evening before I get sick. (Seven.)

I would have loved to go, but I didn’t hear about this show until a week after the fact. The prospect of attending a show called “Friends of the Nib” at the best comic shop in the city quickens my breath. The name alone moistens my boyish brow, so it’s too bad I had said brow firmly up my own ass. Here’s my geek card. Dragons kept trying to steal it anyway. 

I couldn’t make it to Beaverton without thumbing cars or thumbing asses. Either way, it’s hard on the opposable digits and I’m afraid of everything. At the time, I thought it would be better to sit outside my girlfriend’s window and caterwaul. Until her neighbor threatened me with a Little League baseball bat. 

I couldn’t get a ride to Seattle, so I made a receipt collage on my bulletin board while listening to a stream of the BBC World News. Don’t remember what was happening in the world, except that it was delivered with a British lilt. Boy, would I have liked to see the Japanese supa-deejay Krush. Rumor has it that he doesn’t speak more than a few words of English. Which he probably maintains just to keep stupid American rap fans from bothering him all the time.

I skated around in the dark and demonstrated how easy it is to anger neighborhood dogs. The acrylic-wheels-on-concrete sound must translate to canine insults so vile, the pooches want to rip out your spinal cord and play Tug-O-War with it. I bet the metal I missed at Ground Kontrol sounded something like that whole process.

I don’t live in Baltimore and I wasn’t up for a bicycle ride that long. I barricaded myself in my bedroom and clung to the space heater, snaking my arms and legs around it’s girth without shame. It was fuck-all cold and my windows had loose lips. I’m in a different place now. One with windows that rattle like teeth chattering every time the wind blows somewhere in the world. It’s fantastic. [via Ana.]

I don’t know Mikey. I also don’t enjoy that smokey, hipster-packed fuselage, even with their amazing staff. So I stayed at home and explored the mysteries of my own body, accompanied by a few old videos found in the basement and a plastic bottle of red wine.

I know, I know, Magic Johnson can live with AIDS and make it to the show, and I can’t even make it to the show with my vigorous immune system. Lame, right? Truth is, I had one of those days where you’re afraid to leave your house because of the ex girlfriends you might encounter. I got over it the next day, when my need for food finally overpowered the crushing dread.