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"One time a thing occurred to me.
What's real, and what's for sale?
Blew a kiss and tried to take it home." Vasoline – Stone Temple Pilots
I rarely change my mind about a band, but Stone Temple Pilots are (was?) a band I completely misjudged upon first listen. I just wrote them off as a secondary spewing in a long line of Pearl Jam spinoffs, but I knew someone that was opening for them and caught them live about five thousand years ago (feels like). Total 180. They didn't just change my mind, they sanded it down, refurbished it, and gave it a new coat of varnish (they used a nice matte teak color – it just goes with everything now!).
The reunion tour had me salivating since I first got word, but I figured I would do what I did for Radiohead and swoop in for some last minute tickets at "desperate to at least break even" prices offered up by those whose scalping abilities are not up to snuff. I had been eyeballing my usual sources, but nothing stood out till the day of the actual show.
I got a line on really great orchestra seats for $30 each ($65 originally) that I was nibbling on but the person I wanted to go with couldn't go and the option was only for a pair.
I had been up all night dancing and the usual host of volunteer work that I do for underprivileged, half faced, diseased people that get raped and pillaged on top of the land mines that they built their huts on (what can I say? I'm a giver), but my weary, tired ass was going to find a way to see the DeLeo brothers pay the piper. (They clearly got back together for cash. I wonder what the going rate is for enduring the behavior of heroin soaked, loose cannons these days – oh yeah, $65 a head.)
My fogged brain then ran across an ad claiming to have awesome tickets, but that a friend backed out and whoever sent the most innovative email would be invited along for the fun.
You know my crazy, adventurous ass couldn't resist such a morsel this tasty, so I replied to it for a laugh. I was just messing around and even offered cash for the ticket if they couldn't find anyone else. I didn't expect to hear back at all, and thought the entire thing was just a joke anyways.
Well, I did hear back, and it had been sort of a joke, but there really was a ticket and we exchanged Myspaces and whatnot and I was invited along! Yep, I was going to meet up with total strangers and go to a concert with them in the pouring fucking rain. Weird, but I like to mix it up.
Driving there they sent a text informing me that we had PIT tickets – AWESOME! We met up to tailgate with drinks and hit it off in the rain and mud. We're all originally from Michigan, so I felt right at home, and two of them are writers so that was groovy too.
Our foursome entered the Ford Amphitheatre to the sounds of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, the second opening band. I think I was one of 3 people that actually liked 'em. They're so influenced by the Jesus and Mary Chain (whom I love STILL) and they poached their drummer, Leah Shapiro, from the Raveonettes. She was amazing.
The PIT is general admission in front of the stage, and the guys appointed me "Head Weasel", a job that entails conning our way to the stage, or at least as close as possible. Being petite and forceful qualifies me for such a position as I can slip in between people virtually unnoticed. Plus in a crowd of mostly inebriated males whilst wearing a low cut shirt, a smile goes a long way.
We were nearly front and center within minutes, but so were some other people that somehow lacked the wherewithal to apply anti-perspirant. I barely clear 5'2, which puts my nose about pit level to most men, so in a sweaty mass of this size, I totally had my PEW face on. Lots of stinky pits in the PIT.
After Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (that name is too fucking long, makes me think of when I used to smoke Benson and Hedges DELUXE Ultra Lights –that's when I knew I had to quit buying smokes, as just asking for that brand took up minutes that I'll never get back) left the stage, I figured I had about 20-25 minutes to get drinks and weasel my way back to the guys. I was wrong. I actually had about an hour and a half, unbeknownst to me or any other ticket holders.
The PIT started to get nasty. People had to pee, but didn't want to miss the first song. Fights were starting to break out, and I got clocked in the head by someone's poor attempt to throw a drink at the stage. As if my hair wasn't gross enough from the humidity, now it had the added ingredients of a cocktail and possibly someone's spit. I looked like a Hasidic Jewish guy, my hair was so curly, but my main concern was that an hour had gone by and STP were nowhere in sight.
I joked about throwing a tourniquet on stage to draw Weiland out in the event that he couldn't find a vein, and that was what was keeping him from wowing us, but humor was lost on this pissy crowd (understandably).
At about 10:15 it was announced that due to "inclement weather", STP was stuck in Ft. Lauderdale and the show was OFF.
Funny how their tour bus, their equipment, and their opening acts made it, but they didn't? The "weather" was north of us, and Ft. Lauderdale is south, WTF? I found out today that the venue knew at 9:15 what was up and didn't tell us for an hour, during which time they kept selling more bevies, but we got nothing. Well some got t-shirts at $50 a pop; such a wimpy consolation when you'd prefer to have gone temporarily deaf to a live performance of "Interstate Love Song".
There is no news of rescheduling as of yet, and with my luck, the band will break up again the day of any such occurrence. But hey, I have a free PIT ticket, a semi –interesting story to tell, and some new friends out of the deal. =)
Currently listening :
Purple
By Stone Temple Pilots
Release date: 1994-06-07
"The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off." - Gloria Steinem
Ahhhhh TRUTH. My star sign is Sagittarius, which has the symbol of this half horse/half hippy dude that is shooting a bow and arrow. The arrow is supposively the truth, but I've happily shot some lies around – I'm honest enough to admit. Mostly, though, I've put truth in overdrive; meaning I tell it when it isn't always necessary. I crave it when it's beyond my grasp, and I detest it after its departure from my tongue, when the fallout arrives.
Telling the truth has cost me, but hearing it is symphonic relief, even if it's horrific at first.
I'm suffocating in truth today. There's so much of it that's been piled on me, I don't know what to do with it, and it really doesn't go with my outfit AT ALL.
I keep looking away at anything else, including other people's truths, but it's constantly lurking out in the peripheral slant of what my brother-in-law calls my "Anglo-wagon-burner-eyes" (that would be his attempt at Carlos Mencia-ing my American Indian heritage, and yes I see the humor in it – besides he's bald so I can't scalp him now can I?).
I thought about stuffing the truth in my closet, but even walk-in size couldn't contain it.
I tried body slamming it away from me, at least into another room, but it wouldn't budge. It just hangs there attached to my furthest-to-the-right eyelash of my way-too-tired-to-be-awake right eye; persistently clinging in the kind of deafening silence that so harshly makes its presence known after an epic door slam.
I shrugged my shoulders, ordered some Chinese food, and sat down to eat with TRUTH. We didn't say much (truth is very laid back once you get to know it – maybe mixin' with the moocah? Shhhhhh), we just stared at each other as if we both knew that little would change once words entered the scenario.
At one point, TRUTH pretended to choke on one of those free crab/cream cheese wonton thingies, just to see what I would do in order to save it. But very shoddy acting skills prevailed, and I just wasn't in the mood to pander to its wry attempt at testing me.
I'll probably sleep with the TRUTH later, as it's bound to screw me one way or the other. I wonder if it will be like HOPE and never call again afterwards.
"Believe nothing just because a so-called wise person said it. Believe nothing just because a belief is generally held. Believe nothing just because it is said in ancient books. Believe nothing just because it is said to be of divine origin. Believe nothing just because someone else believes it. Believe only what you yourself test and judge to be true." – Buddha
This entire week has been like some accidental anthropological dig. With different friends, different TRUTHS have arisen, and I've come to now believe that 99% of what we perceive to be true for us probably isn't (I hold the internet partially responsible for this).
I'm feeling Socrates with his "All I know is that I know nothing" spiel, which is something I lamely tried to make a song when I was like 19 or something. Heh.
Anyways, for a while I've had something going on that I thought was one way and had nothing to do with anyone else. Another friend had something going on that they thought was solely in their domain, and we had discussed them separately until I stumbled onto a connection to our situations. I then realized that both events were the complete opposite of what we thought, leaving me feeling extremely uncomfortable, but my friend at least may benefit from the discovery, so that makes it a little better, I guess.
Several other occasions come to mind where misrepresentation occurred with such ease, it is a wonder how any of us function at all.
Maybe there is no truth; it's just an ideal that keeps us chasing our tails.
I think there is something to be said for the thick-skinned and superficial that prop themselves up so cozily with denial.
You wanna pour me some of that?
"And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh." - Friedrich Nietzsche
Currently listening :
Don’t Believe the Truth
By Oasis
Release date: 2005-05-31
A lazy breeze, overwhelming gale force winds, blustering blizzards.
Air.
Gasp it in. Longingly sigh it out.
Inhaling the idea of what could be or what once was, exhaling a scream for what is.
The best thing about having hair (H + AIR = hair) is feeling it flirtatiously fondled by the zephyrs.
Skin just lives to be tickled by the invisible breath made from stirs in the atmosphere.
Does the same breeze come around to you twice in one lifetime? Are there new ones, or are they the same gusts that danced across time, maybe bumping into the likes of Marilyn Monroe or John Lennon along the way?
Imagine drawing in the same breath that exited from Adolf Hitler, would you choke on it?
If you exert a yell with everything you are, will that air penetrate time and send warmth to the ones you lost? Or, perhaps, a chill to the ones that lost you?
You can hold your breath, but does it hold you?
Air can't be ensnared no matter how hard you try to catch it; it's ALL free – for now.
Currently listening :
The Sun Is Often Out
By Longpigs
Release date: 1997-02-25
I only had two drinks last night, and about half way through the second one, a wave of YUCK overcame me.
My slight frame only amounts to 92 pounds these days and I'm a hypoglycemic that has to eat constantly, which is dreadfully boring. I ate before I left, but not enough, I guess.
After releasing a portion of what I drank into the unfortunate pipes that delve below the Castle, I just stayed in the stall, leaning against the door feeling that foggy urge to pass out. My head pulled down as my eyes fluttered in defiance, but the thought of sleeping right there, where I stood, felt like velvet somehow.
Until I thought of how many other faces that may have squished upon this very door; possibly less hygienic faces, or even other malodorous body parts and…fluids.
I immediately jerked back to the far wall where I imagined a CSI person snapping on the old latex gloves and black lighting said wall, nodding as they said "Oh yeah this place is just coated in jizz. This particular sample is from a 27 year old Goth named Shane, but he goes by "Dark Dildon't" in his social circles. We can tell a lot more from the samples with today's technology. We're working on DNA GPS systems, and when that's up and running I'll be able to track someone from their spooge stains".
I thought of the fetish nights at the Castle, and how many riding crops get accidentally dropped into the toilet, and how painful that would be to be fishing it out whilst donned in a whalebone leather corset (they aren't known for their flexibility).
I don't know a lot about fetishism, I have many acquaintances that are into all that, but I've never peered behind that curtain. I really love that song by IAMX though, "Spit It Out". It's one of the few songs that I know of that isn't industrial, but does sort of touch on violent proclivities in the sexual wonderland.
I would be a disaster in that world, I mean, I think I'd look ok in the garb (Do they make leather hoods in extra extra small?), but I'm a wimpy goofball with a low threshold for pain and claustrophobic to boot. I could inflict it, I guess, given the right circumstances (ball kicking available upon request?).
I previously wrote something to this effect in a sarcastic series I posted elsewhere for one of my voyeur stalkers that I guess hates me (whatever, and yes I have no life) , but I tried to turn it around and make it humorous as if he didn't and that I'd do anything for him, including the following :
"If YOU wanted me to beat you raw, I would. If you want me to roll an egg down a dark hallway with my bare feet whilst singing the national anthem, I will. If you want me leather clad and chopping onions on your back with a strobe light on, it's done. If you want me to scream Russian obscenities at you while tenderizing your giblets with a flatiron, I'm so there. If you want me to dig the fingernails of my right hand (left hand has stumps – it's a guitar thing) into the base of your scintillating scepter, then I'm your girl. I can't promise that I wouldn't laugh the entire time, but I would do your bidding whenever, wherever."
I'm serious about the latter bit, the laughing. I wouldn't be able to straighten my face in any capacity, so unless there's cackling dominatrix's abound, I best stay on the side of the fence that doesn't require any "safe" words (the Kama Sutra can be just as interesting as a ball and gag, if things get tedious in that department).
The bathroom stall – the stories it might tell (or scream). Actually, they seem pretty clean, compared to most places (CBGB's facilities were unsuitable even by third world standards), but I have a wild imagination. It's a wonder I can even check out books from the libraries, as what possibly touches them before you mentally ingest their words, might drive you to drink.
Currently listening :
The Alternative
By IAMX
Release date: 2008-05-06
