Blog Fodder

My ears are *still* ringing and I just recently stopped vibrating.

The moment I walked into the venue, I knew this was going to be good. We'd had a bit of a problem getting in: our free admission tickets, were apparently only free until 10 pm, and it was well past. After the owner had a little talking to, we persuaded our way through without additional funds. But the moment we were in, I realized the full irony of the situation. I turned to S and declared, "Oh, paaaalease! We're *girls* they should have PAID us to be here." And as S stated, it was indeed a sausage-fest. Not that this was unexpected: we were going to watch a collection of the best metal bands this lo-cal had to offer. (Yes, a questionable proposition, really.)
Immediately the sights had us amused. There was the large woman signing her own plentiful bosom at the bar and the wheelchair bound man with the blue underlighting, as if his mobile device was a bass-thumping, hip-hop blasting Monte Carlo. The music that we walked into was (another round of laugher is incited with the memory...) just *pleasurable.* Imagine this (in the best heavy, growly voice you can conjure:) SQUATTERS!! gggggggrrrrrAAHHHH!! Drip. Dry. DRIP DRY!!! Definitely a very philosophical band. All of their themes were deep. Well, actually it only boiled down to 2: the previously mentioned girl-peeing theme + the prevalent bong-smoking theme (sheepish admission of a fancy for the growling, however.) ;)
The concert-goer's were *almost* as amusing as the first band's lyrics. There were a certain amount of very well made-up, spiky-heeled girls attempting to attract boy-attention. Some clumps of girls even bothered to coordinate outfits with each other. Many were misshapen, a couple were not. One, in an attempt to endear herself to the band, moved her tight bod to the stage and did a hair-flip-a-minute move that she *wishes* she had patented. (But really, most girls are aware of the hair flip and put it in their boy-attracting repertoire occasionally. This girl was a bit overdone, though, with it.) And the boys, well, were as you'd expect. Tattooed, muscle-y, Metallica-shirted things, with long, scraggly hair. Some of the boys and girls would couple up, and you could watch the ass-slaps and attempts at sly-copping-a-feels by the boys as the girls wriggled and perched their asses.
And me? Well, I just tried to lay low and capture it all. My friends sang all the words to the hair-band music that played between the live music, and lamented not being able to attend the upcoming Cinderella concert, in sarcastic voices. I developed a desire to record it all and inquired about a pen with the bartender. With a smile he gave me a condom, a pen, and a piece of paper that he scrawled "Call me..." SLICK boy.