Hey internet. It’s the eve before I leave on my Christmas vacation and I am quite literally sitting in the car in the cold deciding whether I should be responsible and go to bed or go back to my boyfriend’s concert (my boyfriend being Captain Apollo. Keep up.)
On the one hand I get an extra two hours or so of sleep before work and a three hour drive to Christmasland. On the other hand, concert and Captain.
I went in telling myself I was going to be in bed by 12. And now, of course, it’s 11:30 and I want to stay, because, hey, I put pants on for this.
I’m seriously torn. It would be so easy for me to go back inside and have a fun night. Buttt I know the responsible choice is going home and going to bed. Also I’m already in the car, which is half the battle.
Is this my sneak preview of being 24? I don’t like it.
Incidentally, my car smells like goat cheese and the less time I have to spend in it, the better. Long story.
Goodness internet, what do I do? I’m so indecisive.
I picked bed. Frankly, if I hadn’t suddenly had the epiphany that I needed to post a blog and got out to the car to get my phone, I would have stayed, probably. However, the almost indecent level of pleasure I’m getting from lying in bed right now is letting me know I make the right choice.
Decisions (even the stupid ones) are hard. And apparently a constant reminder of how frakin’ old I’m getting.
I mentioned in yesterday’s post that I was going to a punk rock / garage rock / metal show with Captain Apollo.
Well, I did.
Captain Apollo is in a band that plays original punk rock slash garage rock slash rock slash I-don’t-know-what-the-techinical-term-is. Basically, they can be put into a show with a fairly large range of different bands.
The show was in a town about 40 minutes away from us, and the bar was ten minutes outside of that. Basically in a cornfield across from that creepy gas station where people in movies get murdered a lot. You know the one.
We actually passed by it assuming it was a strip club. I can’t even make that up.
Needless to say, the joint was not, upon first glance, somewhere I would frequent. Luckily, I was with a crew of manly men from my hometown, three of whom were wearing leather jackets, so I felt safe enough within a three or four foot radius of any of them. There were definitely some characters in that bar whom I would not have ordinarily wanted within a three or four mile radius of me, but that’s neither here nor there.
And yes, of course I pick this occasion to wear a floral mini skirt and spangly sandals. The girl who wore sweatpants to a fraternity formal once. WHY.
I’m just gonna go for the gusto and tell you that the first band that played was named for two different bodily functions.
Nope. Bloodsnot, actually. An instrumental death metal band named Bloodsnot. Which probably gives you a pretty decent idea of I thought how my night was going to go.
Needless to say, I wouldn’t consider myself a death metal type of person. The “hardest” person I think I listen to on a regular basis is probably Avril Lavigne.
At any rate, Bloodsnot (BloodSnot? Blood Snot? bLoOdSnOt?) starts playing, and almost immediately three or four guys start “dancing”.
I think you could technically consider it dancing, in that they were moving and music happened to be playing. To me, it mostly looked like a group of zombies having a collective seizure.
It basically looked like this:
But in a smaller space and everyone was wearing cutoff teeshirts. EVERYONE.
You can probably imagine by this point I was two Blues down the hatch and had backed myself into a corner with Captain Apollo and the second scariest-looking townie we brought (although, objectively speaking, what’s scarier – a bleached mohawk or a half-dreads, half-shaved head combo?)
However, I have to say, once beer number three kicked in, (oh yes, it was that kind of a night) I sort of enjoyed Bloodsnot’s music. I know this because I apparently (very drunkenly) later told their guitarist that I enjoyed their performance as much as possible without ever wanting to listen to it again.
This is probably why I shouldn’t talk to people. Or go out into public places.
When Apollo’s band went on stage, I switched to whiskey gingers, ended up on the dance floor, and got into trouble with the stage manager for starting a mosh pit. Yes, the tiny half-asian girl started a mosh (well, shoving match, really). Hilariously, the Mohawk Guy got the telling off, but I totally shoved him first. It was very metal. In fact, I was definitely starting to feel pretty metal at this point, you guys. Never mind the fact that Mohawk guy is actually very nice. I felt like shoving somebody. MUAHAHA.
During whiskey ginger number two, a band full of 30-something men wearing wallet chains screamed into microphones and rolled around on the floor while their bassist, who was inexplicably dressed like a pirate-slash-douchebag, roamed around the bar playing next to unassuming patrons. At one point the guitarist accidentally kicked over his mic stand onto the lead singer, who was still lying on the ground.
It was super metal.
I totally danced by myself in the middle of the room while my friends pretended not to know me.
The last band marked whisky ginger number three. I vaguely remember that the lead singer was dressed like a total nerd. Or was one. Either. He did not look very metal, at any rate, and a bunch of girls showed up and started dancing, and that was even less metal.
I think that’s about when I started talking to Bloodsnot about how I really enjoyed their set as much as possible without enjoying it at all, and Captain Apollo decided it was probably time for us to go home.
Except when we did get home, Varenka had accidentally locked me out.