Last weekend, the man I go around with and I went to a show. I knew it was going to be bad scheduling on my part, as I had already made plans to go shopping with my mother and sister at the bright-eyed, busy-beaver hour of nine the next morning. In our family, we don’t go by the phrase “The early bird catches the worm,” but by the phrase, “The early bird catches the best thrift store deals, so hurry the fuck up.”
This show was at the local and once-unknown warehouse, which, since the opening and re-opening of the historically popular music venue/bar downtown and it’s inevitable downward spiral into bro-esque fuckery and poor band booking, has dug its way into my heart. It’s cheap, the bands are always good, I can bring however many PBRs will fit into my purse, and, sometimes, there’s a train on the tracks between you and that destination of glorious metal sin, and you have to climb over it because danger is fun.
Another point to make about the warehouse is that people will go there and they will get all kinds of crazy that is not tolerated or maybe just not present in the bars. The bands that night were of the typical hard/metal/thrash/rock/punk that the warehouse people, bless their hardworking hearts, book, some of them local, all of them great, and people had clearly come there to celebrate the musical talent and their freedom to get drunk in a very physical way.
This show was at the local and once-unknown warehouse, which, since the opening and re-opening of the historically popular music venue/bar downtown and it’s inevitable downward spiral into bro-esque fuckery and poor band booking, has dug its way into my heart. It’s cheap, the bands are always good, I can bring however many PBRs will fit into my purse, and, sometimes, there’s a train on the tracks between you and that destination of glorious metal sin, and you have to climb over it because danger is fun.
Another point to make about the warehouse is that people will go there and they will get all kinds of crazy that is not tolerated or maybe just not present in the bars. The bands that night were of the typical hard/metal/thrash/rock/punk that the warehouse people, bless their hardworking hearts, book, some of them local, all of them great, and people had clearly come there to celebrate the musical talent and their freedom to get drunk in a very physical way.
I love free spirits.
Two jolly fellows in particular were bumping into each other, pushing everyone in their path, throwing themselves into the crowd, knocking people down, and rolling around on the floor as the bands played. They were wearing coats with matted fur that reminded me of when my parents’ long-haired cat gets dreadlocks and we have to get the scissors out and cut them off. These young men looked like two Sasquatches in heat, recklessly throwing themselves around, expressing their feral desires, or perhaps altered mental states moshfully. I am more willing to go to shows like this now, as my health insurance from my new job kicks in soon, but I stand to the side and I stay away from 40s and glass bottles in general, as that is how my boyfriend got his tooth chipped. He was drinking PBR, the nectar of the Gods, at the warehouse Halloween show when someone ran into him, knocking the bottle against his once-beautiful, now snaggy teeth.
I do, indeed, love the warehouse.
Needless to say, after my purse full of beers, I wasn’t in prime shopping shape the next morning. I stumbled to the coffee maker in agony. “Why, Jesus, why did you make PBR so delicious!?” I threw the previous day’s grounds into the compost bucket, which is actually a more difficult maneuver than it sounds like - one has to remove the rubber bands that keep the cupboard doors closed from the kitty’s curious paws, then pry the plastic lid off of the compost bucket while making sure that the cat doesn’t squeeze into the cupboard. My fear of fears: the cat climbing into the mysterious hole in the back corner of the lower cupboards and disappearing into the house (which reminds me of the House of Leaves house, with it’s secret staircase and attic noises and crooked hallways - nothing has fallen off the shelf yet) FOREVER. It is a very real concern of mine.
With my little nugget safely away from the cupboards of death, and coffee in my system, I made it to the street where my mother picked me up. After getting my sister, we went to the consignment store where she happens to work and proceeded to spend nearly three hours there, getting excited over pink metallic jackets in the 80’s section and leopard-print cardigans. Going to this consignment store is like a ritual, a tradition - instead of worshipping at a church, we worship the Rack of Sensible Jackets and the Divine Bin of Boots and Oversized 80’s Belts.
Afterwards, we made a stop at the grocery store, my sister momentarily pausing in the Valentine’s Day aisle to contemplate getting a not-so-secret crush a Valentine’s Day gift, and then to curse at love and all of it’s conventions. We then went to another consignment store to pick up the meager cash we had from things we had brought previously to sell. At that point, we were getting tired. My sister’s caffeine was running low, and so we walked around, trying to find a vending machine. We found one a few shops down, outside, oblivious that it was pure evil. Not only was it not Pepsi or Coke but Dr. Pepper, but the bottle got stuck at the bottom of the vending machine, behind the plastic flap.
Two jolly fellows in particular were bumping into each other, pushing everyone in their path, throwing themselves into the crowd, knocking people down, and rolling around on the floor as the bands played. They were wearing coats with matted fur that reminded me of when my parents’ long-haired cat gets dreadlocks and we have to get the scissors out and cut them off. These young men looked like two Sasquatches in heat, recklessly throwing themselves around, expressing their feral desires, or perhaps altered mental states moshfully. I am more willing to go to shows like this now, as my health insurance from my new job kicks in soon, but I stand to the side and I stay away from 40s and glass bottles in general, as that is how my boyfriend got his tooth chipped. He was drinking PBR, the nectar of the Gods, at the warehouse Halloween show when someone ran into him, knocking the bottle against his once-beautiful, now snaggy teeth.
I do, indeed, love the warehouse.
Needless to say, after my purse full of beers, I wasn’t in prime shopping shape the next morning. I stumbled to the coffee maker in agony. “Why, Jesus, why did you make PBR so delicious!?” I threw the previous day’s grounds into the compost bucket, which is actually a more difficult maneuver than it sounds like - one has to remove the rubber bands that keep the cupboard doors closed from the kitty’s curious paws, then pry the plastic lid off of the compost bucket while making sure that the cat doesn’t squeeze into the cupboard. My fear of fears: the cat climbing into the mysterious hole in the back corner of the lower cupboards and disappearing into the house (which reminds me of the House of Leaves house, with it’s secret staircase and attic noises and crooked hallways - nothing has fallen off the shelf yet) FOREVER. It is a very real concern of mine.
With my little nugget safely away from the cupboards of death, and coffee in my system, I made it to the street where my mother picked me up. After getting my sister, we went to the consignment store where she happens to work and proceeded to spend nearly three hours there, getting excited over pink metallic jackets in the 80’s section and leopard-print cardigans. Going to this consignment store is like a ritual, a tradition - instead of worshipping at a church, we worship the Rack of Sensible Jackets and the Divine Bin of Boots and Oversized 80’s Belts.
Afterwards, we made a stop at the grocery store, my sister momentarily pausing in the Valentine’s Day aisle to contemplate getting a not-so-secret crush a Valentine’s Day gift, and then to curse at love and all of it’s conventions. We then went to another consignment store to pick up the meager cash we had from things we had brought previously to sell. At that point, we were getting tired. My sister’s caffeine was running low, and so we walked around, trying to find a vending machine. We found one a few shops down, outside, oblivious that it was pure evil. Not only was it not Pepsi or Coke but Dr. Pepper, but the bottle got stuck at the bottom of the vending machine, behind the plastic flap.
“Fuck!” said my sister, and bent down to free it. She pushed the plastic flap, and hit it, and jiggled it, getting angrier by the moment, and swearing up the usual storm. At last she freed the bottle, and victory was hers.
Victorious, in fact, was the weekend, I realized: I had no teeth knocked out, I saw a handful of good bands and two Sasquatch men, and that leopard print cardigan was MINE.torious, in fact, was the weekend, I realized: I had no teeth knocked out, I saw a handful of good bands and two Sasquatch men, and that leopard print cardigan was MINE.
hipsters drink PBR!
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