Sunday, April 3, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Shipping Up to Boston
Dear World,
There is an alarmingly realistic possibility I end up dead tonight, so relish this post accordingly. I am attending Gogol Bordello in Boston with my hilarious and down right wonderful friend Kayla. She lives in a killer apartment in Medford and is the epitome of everything and anything I ever wanted to be (world traveler, trendy, thin, etc.) We saw Cold War Kids a few weeks ago at The House of Blues and had an awesome* time. Kayla is the perfect concert companion, as she does not suffocate me, drag me to the bathroom with her, or get so trashed she spills her 6 dollar beer on my shoes. And she dances, which is a perk because usually I am the only idiot bobbing up and down, shakin' my thang to the beat. She forewarned me that shit might get hectic tonight and that I should wear a helmet. I laughed thinking "how crazy could it be?" but I've been rethinking it and me in a mosh pit could be potentially disastrous. I have no self-defense mechanism. None. I'd get trampled before I tried to save myself.
You see, I consider myself an avid concert goer, but that's not to say they're always enjoyable. It's an uphill struggle and if I don't devise a plan accordingly I end up furious, counting down the minutes and fantasizing about the benefits of being an unsociable, sprawled out on my floor listening to the artist on low volume. The trick is to first, get there early. Just early enough to catch the end of the opening band but late enough to not end up in the front row. For me, first row is fun for about ten seconds until some sweaty giant starts clapping his hands above his head only to slam his pointy elbow on my head, over, and over, and over again. Also, I can never remember ear plugs and I'm all set with that high pitched after ring. Step Two, find a stair. The stair is key because it lends me elevation, a liberty my body does not afford me. Then, I can see and hear the concert without constantly shuffling back and forth every time the person in front of me moves their head, talks to someone, arcs to see the drummer, etc. And my feet aren't stepped on because I am on my own little stair and there's only room for one. Third, play the sympathy card. If all else fails, simply tap the shoulder of the person in front of you (males work best), and beg them to switch spots with you because you can't see the show and this is your ALL TIME FAVORITE BAND, whether it is or isn't. Repeat. Do this enough and you will land yourself a sweet ass spot, most likely away from everyone you came with, but with a clean view of the stage and close enough to get spit on by the lead singer.
However, I have a sneaking suspicion none of this will be feasible so I'm treating this as a bit of a test run. I have tickets to see these Gogol Bordello characters two more times this year, once at Bonnaroo and once at Folk Fest. In addition to wanting to live vicariously through Kayla for a few hours and pretend I live in a cool hand painted purple room where lots of city smart sex gods grant me one night stands, I also want to assimilate myself to this "veritable rock and roll army of musicians and dancers." Because, I want to appear rock and roll savvy to appeal to my potential city smart one night stands vs. the scrawny acoustic loving Shakespeare fanatics I'm normally surrounded by. Moving on. Tonight, I'm anticipating blood, bruises, projectile vomiting, and several extremely poor choice decisions that will never see the light of this blog. I'm throwing myself into that mosh pit, and I am going to live. LIVE I SAY! I'm not going to stand on my safe little stair. I'm not going to go to the bathroom when I don't have to for some fucking peace and quiet. I'm not going to check my watch eighty times because it is past my bed time and I am getting cranky. Tonight, I am a young public transportation user, ready for action, ready for adventure. Thus, tonight I might die. Because that is a risk I am willing to take. That is what my alter-ego would do.
If anyone can express ship a few of these to me before 8 pm that'd be mighty helpful.
All my love,
City Slick Girl Fo' Lyfe
*it was almost the opposite of awesome because House of Blues is affectionately coined House of Rules. Those wet blankets line trash cans up outside their building and have sycophants who sniff the empty bottles for alcohol. Said bootlicker then passes the contaminated bottle to his accomplice, who passes it to security, who stalks you in line to see if you are of age. No wrist band you say? Interesting. How old are you exactly? Please step aside. Then a beefy guy in a tight tee tells you his superior wants you to leave the show. He points and this "superior" stares angrily at you through sunken eyes masked by a black hood. You feel ashamed and embarrassed for trying to have a good time. You're also pissed because you chose not to litter, you cut the environment some slack and didn't leave your plastic lying around like some irresponsible derelict. They tell you they're going to let it slide this time but don't go pulling any fast ones the next time you're here. Finally, they take away the of ager's hard earned wrists bands and tell them to thank their sneaky friend for ruining everyone's night. They also act like they did you a real favor by publicly demoralizing you. Bastards.
There is an alarmingly realistic possibility I end up dead tonight, so relish this post accordingly. I am attending Gogol Bordello in Boston with my hilarious and down right wonderful friend Kayla. She lives in a killer apartment in Medford and is the epitome of everything and anything I ever wanted to be (world traveler, trendy, thin, etc.) We saw Cold War Kids a few weeks ago at The House of Blues and had an awesome* time. Kayla is the perfect concert companion, as she does not suffocate me, drag me to the bathroom with her, or get so trashed she spills her 6 dollar beer on my shoes. And she dances, which is a perk because usually I am the only idiot bobbing up and down, shakin' my thang to the beat. She forewarned me that shit might get hectic tonight and that I should wear a helmet. I laughed thinking "how crazy could it be?" but I've been rethinking it and me in a mosh pit could be potentially disastrous. I have no self-defense mechanism. None. I'd get trampled before I tried to save myself.
You see, I consider myself an avid concert goer, but that's not to say they're always enjoyable. It's an uphill struggle and if I don't devise a plan accordingly I end up furious, counting down the minutes and fantasizing about the benefits of being an unsociable, sprawled out on my floor listening to the artist on low volume. The trick is to first, get there early. Just early enough to catch the end of the opening band but late enough to not end up in the front row. For me, first row is fun for about ten seconds until some sweaty giant starts clapping his hands above his head only to slam his pointy elbow on my head, over, and over, and over again. Also, I can never remember ear plugs and I'm all set with that high pitched after ring. Step Two, find a stair. The stair is key because it lends me elevation, a liberty my body does not afford me. Then, I can see and hear the concert without constantly shuffling back and forth every time the person in front of me moves their head, talks to someone, arcs to see the drummer, etc. And my feet aren't stepped on because I am on my own little stair and there's only room for one. Third, play the sympathy card. If all else fails, simply tap the shoulder of the person in front of you (males work best), and beg them to switch spots with you because you can't see the show and this is your ALL TIME FAVORITE BAND, whether it is or isn't. Repeat. Do this enough and you will land yourself a sweet ass spot, most likely away from everyone you came with, but with a clean view of the stage and close enough to get spit on by the lead singer.
However, I have a sneaking suspicion none of this will be feasible so I'm treating this as a bit of a test run. I have tickets to see these Gogol Bordello characters two more times this year, once at Bonnaroo and once at Folk Fest. In addition to wanting to live vicariously through Kayla for a few hours and pretend I live in a cool hand painted purple room where lots of city smart sex gods grant me one night stands, I also want to assimilate myself to this "veritable rock and roll army of musicians and dancers." Because, I want to appear rock and roll savvy to appeal to my potential city smart one night stands vs. the scrawny acoustic loving Shakespeare fanatics I'm normally surrounded by. Moving on. Tonight, I'm anticipating blood, bruises, projectile vomiting, and several extremely poor choice decisions that will never see the light of this blog. I'm throwing myself into that mosh pit, and I am going to live. LIVE I SAY! I'm not going to stand on my safe little stair. I'm not going to go to the bathroom when I don't have to for some fucking peace and quiet. I'm not going to check my watch eighty times because it is past my bed time and I am getting cranky. Tonight, I am a young public transportation user, ready for action, ready for adventure. Thus, tonight I might die. Because that is a risk I am willing to take. That is what my alter-ego would do.
If anyone can express ship a few of these to me before 8 pm that'd be mighty helpful.
All my love,
City Slick Girl Fo' Lyfe
*it was almost the opposite of awesome because House of Blues is affectionately coined House of Rules. Those wet blankets line trash cans up outside their building and have sycophants who sniff the empty bottles for alcohol. Said bootlicker then passes the contaminated bottle to his accomplice, who passes it to security, who stalks you in line to see if you are of age. No wrist band you say? Interesting. How old are you exactly? Please step aside. Then a beefy guy in a tight tee tells you his superior wants you to leave the show. He points and this "superior" stares angrily at you through sunken eyes masked by a black hood. You feel ashamed and embarrassed for trying to have a good time. You're also pissed because you chose not to litter, you cut the environment some slack and didn't leave your plastic lying around like some irresponsible derelict. They tell you they're going to let it slide this time but don't go pulling any fast ones the next time you're here. Finally, they take away the of ager's hard earned wrists bands and tell them to thank their sneaky friend for ruining everyone's night. They also act like they did you a real favor by publicly demoralizing you. Bastards.
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