The American Caliban (substitute) wrote,
The American Caliban

  • Mood:

maybe i really should wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled

Killed another night in Costa Mesa. I should have gone to the Apple Store and geeked out with the midnight Panther crew; that's about the speed I could handle tonight.

A hundred little social anxieties and sorrows pecked at me like baby ducks tonight. I was alone, excluded, unwanted, ugly, redundant. A dozen aborted half-conversations, fumbling and intrusive. I'm the fifth wheel, the albatross, the wacky friend, the guy who gets killed in the first reel of every horror movie.

The redeeming feature of the night's events was appropriately bitter. A couple of blowdried-beard Dan Fogelberg/James Taylor style nut-nibbling ass-cheese folksucking mellow-ass MELLOW FUCKS showed up and set up an elaborate sound system plus drum machine for their two vocal mics and Ovation guitars and proceeded to launch into a set that included one of my personal musical dealbreakers: "Leaving on a Jet Plane". I called out on my God, Old Testament Style, to strike them down.

Four songs into the set the management told them they were too loud, in the wrong place, and starting too early and they broke their crap down and left.


Then everyone else went off to their night of exploration or their boyfriend or girlfriend or something, and I bought animal crackers and drove home to sit on the couch and listen to the dryer and type on my computer. The movie has once again gone on without me.
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