Friday night wound up being something of a cluster fuck (two Fridays ago, when I was supposed to jam with Crazy Sean and Guitar Dan). See, Guitar Dan's plans changed and he neglected to inform me (he's a bit of a prick) so I sat around my apartment until about 8pm trying to get in touch with him or Sean. No such luck, so I called the Captain, who had invited me out earlier in the week to see his cousin's band play down at the Reverb (semi-major club venue downtown). Now, I wasn't terribly interested in seeing this band play: they sort of do that EMO-scrEAMO thing which I have only a little bit of patience for, and I knew that since it was a Battle of the Bands that genre would dominate my night of audial pleasure. Then the Captain said the two magic things he needed to: 1) the boys in the band were bringing a lot of women who were mostly stupid and easily led with few standards, and 2) there was promise of free booze. Off I went, since I follow my alcohol habit (and portions of my anatomy) around like a divining rod.
So we got down to the Reverb and after a couple of pints at a nearby bar we went in. I had to laugh because I figured there would be a lot more people there to see this so-called Battle of the Bands than there actually were. Mainly it seemed to consist of the bands, their girlfriends (or boyfriends or whatever) and a couple of hangers-on. Even worse, the guy from Rogers who was MCing the night kept trying to pump up the crowd. Unfortunately, when you turn your mic up really high in a small club with almost no one in it, the sounds that come out of the speakers don't really resemble human language so much as a scene from The Exorcist. So that was lame.
The first band we caught onstage was some GRRL POWER outfit called "Boring Mediocre Girl Band" (not their real name, but on the off chance they eat enough dick to garner a record contract, I don't want to get sued later). They sucked. A lot. They completely ruined my favourite Misfits song when they tried to cover it and then proceeded to play their instruments poorly in time to the drummer (the only male member of the band) who appeared to be on some kind of hallucinogen. However, their guitar player was hot so I decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. When they finished raping my ears they got offstage and I realized that "hot" guitar player was not nearly as hot as I originally thought. Let's just say she was a big fan of rancid, and I'm not talking about the band.
The next band that went on, well, I never caught their name, but it really didn't matter. From the moment they took the stage I couldn't stop laughing. Now, to be fair, for what they were doing they were a tight group, but the singer...it was like Eddie Vedder fucked Raine Maida and they had a boy. All his guitar lines and most of his singing in the verses had that growling, mewling "Yeeeeeaaaah" vibe that Lane Staley perfected (and that later got ruined by Nickelback and Creed and the rest of them), and then when he hit the chorus he went into this whiny, nasally "Superman's Dead" caterwauling that threatened to blow out monitors all across the stage. And he looked like a low-rent Chris Caberra, complete with EMO(TM) registered trademark hairdo and full-sleeve tattoos.
Needless to say, during these performances I felt a little of me dying minute by minute, so I did what I always do when I get depressed: I drank. Unfortunately, the bar was FUCKING expensive: $5.50 for a bottle of domestic beer? Get the fuck out of here. So I took it pretty easy, considering.
Throughout this time, me and the Captain are hanging out with this ex-girlfriend of his; a marginally cute broad called Lisa. From what the Captain told me, she's just another slut (like most of the women he's dated) so I figured I could ply her with alcohol to lower her standards enough to go home with me. That is, until she opened her mouth:
"Hi guyth. My name'th Leetha. What'th yourth?"
Sufferin' sucatash! The girl sounded like a post-op tranny Sylvester the Cat. I decided to forget plying her with booze and keep it for myself...I won't go into detail here, but just imagine what "bedroom speak" would have sounded like coming out of this woman. I would need to be shit-housed just to keep from laughing in her face.
So Phase I went into operation right then and there: I turned on the Charming Al bit and went to work on my impedimented hookup, made her laugh and whatnot. That's when Ken and the boys from Scarsville went on stage.
I kind of had to laugh again because there were roughly seven or eight of them on stage, all with instruments, all tuning up, all looking like extras from a Taking Back Tuesday video or whatever. Eight guys to play thrash? What are you, Supertramp? But they were okay, I guess. At least, for what they did they didn't completely suck. But by this time I was dying for a cigarette and really wanted to fuckin' leave, because you can't smoke in clubs in the city anymore.
So right after they got off stage, the Captain and Leetha and myself went with a few other people across the way to the Velvet Underground, which used to be a really happenin' club back when they did Machine Mondays (sort of an industrial/goth vibe in there, which I used to dig). They've turned it into a much more chill place since then: pool tables, two bars and a modest dancefloor, seating and big screen TVs showing music videos or the game or whatever. I was impressed.
At this point the Captain's younger brother Steve showed up with a couple of his friends: Steve was the one whose birthday I went out for a few weeks prior because he turned legal. Anyway, I like Steve as he's a good kid, and usually I don't mind his friends, but the two he brought out with him this particular night were utter fuckups. They weren't the usual MTV-ites that Steve generally chills with; these guys looked like they spent their free time playing Dungeons and Dragons in their underwear in their Mom's basement and jerking off to Kingdom Hearts standies. I referred to them as the Moron Twins the whole night, which I think kind of pissed them off. Whatever, like I'm going to start caring now.
Anyway, these two idiots decided they wanted to show me up playing pool. It so happens that I'm not a bad pool player on most nights, and on some nights I'm really good. It so happens that night was one of those nights. So Steve and I teamed against the Moron Twins for a game of pool. Predictably I botched my first shot, receiving much catcalling and horseshit from the Moron Twins, to which I replied that I was simply lulling them into a false sense of security. The next time the cue came back around to me I sank six balls, followed by a seventh which was completely awesome because I shot too hard - while I did sink what I was aiming for, the cueball jumped the table and racked Moron Twin #2 right in the nuts. I couldn't even bring myself to apologize because I was laughing too hard, as were Steve, the Captain, Leetha, and half the bar, because the kid was bent over cradling his junk and weakly calling for ice. Then he picked up the pool cue and I was reasonably sure he was going to try and hit me with it, but he was so drunk at this point that I don't think the fight would have lasted for more than ten seconds or so. It didn't matter; the bartender came over and brought him an ice pack.
After we cleaned their clocks at pool twice more, I was getting a healthy buzz on because the Captain kept feeding me double gin and tonics, which were very tasty. So I decided to talk to Leetha for a while. The conversation went something like this:
Lee: Tho, do you have a girlfriend?
Al: No (insert short ex-girlfriend sob story here)
Lee: That'th too bad. Tho are you looking for new prothpectth?
Al: No (insert prepared but impersonal desirous-of-one-night-stand-speech here)
Lee: Well, let me give you thome advithe, Alekth. I think you're very attractive and very funny, but on the thame token you thcare me.
Al: What? What do you mean I scare you? I'm not scary, I'm very nice.
Lee: Yeah, you're nithe and all, but there'th thith thread of violent anger that runth jutht beneath the thurfathe and I think a lot of girlth will thee that and be thcared off by it.
Al: I really don't understand what the fuck you're talking about. I've been called cynical, caustic, negative, a general asshole, but never "angry". Give me an example.
Lee: Well, maybe cauthtic would be a better word for it, but come on - people call you "Al"...that'th an old curmudgeonly name. You thould call yourthelf "Zander". You know, like the character from "Buffy". That would be hot.
Oh fucking kay. I'm not even going to list the reasons why I'm not naming myself after a character from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I like the show well enough, but since when do people nickname themselves? You nickname yourself, you might as well scream "I have no friends" and "I am a big loser who names myself after obscure television characters from the late 1990s". Now granted, people used to call me Zander once upon a time, but not in years, and furthermore, that's a really good way to get my ass kicked - who in this age group calls themselves Zander anyway? Tell you what bitch, in the spirit of 90s nicknames, I'll call myself Zander when you let me call you "Blossom" and piss all over your face. Wouldn't that be "hot" too? Huh? Goddamn it, I'm losing patience with this woman. And my buzz. I order another drink.
Al: I'll bear that in mind, thank you.
This sort of treatment from Tranny Sylvester kept up most of the night: seriously, this woman wrecked my shit all over the board, culminating when the Captain and I went home to chill out at her place. First off we had to tiptoe all over the shit festival that was her apartment and talk really quietly because her roommate was asleep (on a Friday night when she didn't have to work in the morning). Then when the Captain and I asked for the booze, the promise of which lured us back to her place, she pulled out - and I'm not kidding - a quarter bottle of Malibu rum. Between three people. Then she poured the baby booze equally into three PINT GLASSES and filled the rest with fruit juice. Great, do I get a cookie too?
We hung out there, painfully, for several hours, during which time it became plainly apparent to me that Leetha was not over the Captain. Quite the opposite: she was barely containing her love (or at least her burning desire to insert something in her genitals). I became aware of this and decided it was time for me to go the fuck home after a wasted night out. I suggested this to the Captain, and he agreed.
I left the room to hit the head before we departed into the early morning dawn. When I got back the Captain was looking decidedly uncomfortable and so we left. I was cordially invited to a shindig Leetha was throwing the next night which I promised to attend (sure).
Once we got outside, I asked the Captain what his problem was.
Cap: Dude, I think you’re right. I think she still digs me.
Al: Bravo. Nothing gets past you, does it? What changed your mind Sherlock?
Cap: When you left the room she started trying to grab my dick.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present proof positive that women are whores. (ed. Note: I know not all women are whores, but it’s hard to maintain a balanced perspective when so many of them are trying to grab the Captain’s dick).
A short cab ride later I collapsed for two hours on the Captain’s couch, only to get up and go for lunch with my ex-girlfriend. My life is silly sometimes.
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