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.
I think my cat has freaking lost it. Like, really, really lost it. Like, he’s entered his happy place and his mental capacities have fluttered away lost it.
I caught him staring at the wall the other day. Not out the door or anything, he was literally sitting and staring at the wall. I went to my room for twenty minutes or so and came back downstairs and he was still there. I’m kicking myself for not having my phone on me to take a picture, but I swear on Matthew McConaughey’s rippling sixpack that it really happened.
Varenka has confirmed this suspicion that my cat has gone loco bananas. She came over on Tuesday evening after our studio’s crazy yoga dance party (which I’ll tell y’all about in more detail on Tuesday, but guys it was so amazing) for our pity party and we spent a solid five minutes watching my cat, who was draped across an armchair in the most uncomfortable looking position ever, lick the air. Not his nose, which dogs do with astonishing regularity. No. The air. Like a snake does.
I realize I casually skipped over the fact that Varenka and I planned and attended something called a pity party, which is our new term for making mojitos in our pajamas and watching Doctor Who and not discussing all of the distressing happenings in our lives. This is partially because I wanted to get the bit out about the cat first, and partially because I’ve been avoiding mentioning that I didnt get in to grad school this year.
And that’s all we shall say on that subject.
Anyways, so my cat has gone nutters and I’m pretty sure he dragged my precious baby boy down the rabbit hole with him because as I previously mentioned, Pepper PEED on me twice last week. He flipped over on his back for tummy rubs and peed right on my leg with the kind of accuracy that human males never achieve (if the average fraternity bathroom is anything to go by). I can only assume that the cat offered him his body weight in Beggin’ Strips for the dirty deed, because my smoodlywoodle wouldn’t do that to me unprovoked.
Patty Mayonnaise seems to be above picking sides at the moment, as always providing proof that girls of any species are smarter than boys.