Modern Hedonism
I honestly wasn’t planning anything tonight, other than staying home and writing a battle post. Around 7:30, Dee left to hang out at some party she had no interest, and David from work IMed me and told me I needed to come out to his show. I was hesitant, to be perfectly honest. I never do well in these situations, let alone at some random guy’s house. It had been awhile since I had been to a show, and the promise of drunken floozies was oddly enticing.
I got ready, spazzed out like I normally do, and drove down to the venue. After passing it eight or nine times, I gave up, got lost, and tried again, only to build up enough testicular fortitude to actually risk walking up to some random house. Turns out that the show was starting late and few had shown up yet.
I stood awkwardly, hating the situation, until some random hipster noticed my pattern of meander, scratch chin, meander. He introduced himself, and I pretended to be upset with the literary state of America. I nodded in agreement while he mulled over author’s I’d never heard of and grunted positive replies.
Eventually, David’s band, the Apgars went on. I swear, David keeps a stone face when he plays, and while the singer Jonesy had improved immensely, he still seemed fake and annoying.
Between A Poet Named Revolver and Venice is Sinking, I spent most of my time outside, getting to know several people. Dry humping Jonesy seems to be an instant icebreaker. There was a girl there… things got a little… difficult, and she had a reputation. So nothing happened there, thank god.
After the show, we headed to David’s apartment. The pulled out a vaporizer and an eight, and the masses got stoned. I didn’t, despite some pressure from David.
After that, we headed to IHOP. The food was bad, the coffee was bad, and the mood was slightly spoiled by the constant eyeing from police. What can I say? Knowing you’re an accomplice and being watched isn’t exactly fun.
The night ended, now I’m home. You’d think three cups of coffee would keep me up, but I’m slumping over as I type. I’ll finish the post tomorrow before Dee.
Night, and love you all.
I got ready, spazzed out like I normally do, and drove down to the venue. After passing it eight or nine times, I gave up, got lost, and tried again, only to build up enough testicular fortitude to actually risk walking up to some random house. Turns out that the show was starting late and few had shown up yet.
I stood awkwardly, hating the situation, until some random hipster noticed my pattern of meander, scratch chin, meander. He introduced himself, and I pretended to be upset with the literary state of America. I nodded in agreement while he mulled over author’s I’d never heard of and grunted positive replies.
Eventually, David’s band, the Apgars went on. I swear, David keeps a stone face when he plays, and while the singer Jonesy had improved immensely, he still seemed fake and annoying.
Between A Poet Named Revolver and Venice is Sinking, I spent most of my time outside, getting to know several people. Dry humping Jonesy seems to be an instant icebreaker. There was a girl there… things got a little… difficult, and she had a reputation. So nothing happened there, thank god.
After the show, we headed to David’s apartment. The pulled out a vaporizer and an eight, and the masses got stoned. I didn’t, despite some pressure from David.
After that, we headed to IHOP. The food was bad, the coffee was bad, and the mood was slightly spoiled by the constant eyeing from police. What can I say? Knowing you’re an accomplice and being watched isn’t exactly fun.
The night ended, now I’m home. You’d think three cups of coffee would keep me up, but I’m slumping over as I type. I’ll finish the post tomorrow before Dee.
Night, and love you all.