Complete and utter disaster.

Complete and utter disaster.

See, Brandon (of Maxwell Smart fame) had to go on at 9:45, and I
worked until 9 o'clock. So Melissa and I left the mall at 9, and
stopped at some crappy little bar somewhere between Northridge Fashion
Center and the Verity Room. We enjoyed a shot of tequila and an adult
beverage or two, and planned to head straight to the show.

Now, backing out of the parking lot of said crappy bar posed a bit of
a problem for tipsy Melissa. Not because she was tipsy, I only
mention it because it's important. But she backed her beautiful,
white, 2005 Mustang smack into he rear bumper of a Ford Taurus.

To say the very least, we were going to be late.

Of course,I immediately took control of the situation. Not because I
like to be in control, but because - when I'm nervous - I like to know
that if things get f'd up, I won't hate anyone but me for the outcome,
whatever it may be.

I stepped out of the car and inspected the damage. Nothing on the
'Stang, but grey paint.

The Taurus though...

Well, the Taurus? The entire rear corner bumper was crumpled like
aluminum foil.

"Melissa, give me your driver's license and insurance card."

A lady steps out of the passenger seat and starts going crazy. "What
the hell were you doing!?"

A man steps out of the driver's seat.

"Hello," I say. "Tell her to shut up. Have you got a pen?"

"Be quiet, honey. Let me get their information."

I write down Melissa's info, he writes his, we trade. I act like I
know what I'm doing, quick, methodical, like I've done it a hundred
times before. I'm doing this because (a) we're in a hurry, and (b)
because I want no possibility of police involvement.

Melissa apologizes. Bad move. An apology is admitting fault. Other
than that, she did great.

We walk in halfway through Brandon's set, and he mentions waiting for
his girlfriend all night on stage.

So now I'm sitting at a show with no alcohol, the third wheel, with
two wheels that aren't speaking to one another. It's beautifully
awkward and hideously sober, but it's something,

I've got the day off tomorrow, so I suppose I've got that to look
forward to.

Selah.

Complete disaster. On all fronts.

I generally don't go to shows in alcohol-free venues, because (a) I'm
fundamentally against the whole idea, and (b) those kinds of shows
attract far too many children for my taste. But here I am, at the
Verity Room, and I'll be damned if they don't have the greatest public
restroom I've ever seen. I even cased the medicine cabinet for drugs,
but it only contained Listerine and Bacitracine.

I'm at a Maxwell Smart show, because Maxwell Smart kicks a ton of ass.

Big Apple Redemption.

Sit down, order food, the meal arrives in six minutes. Eat. Take the
check to the hostess, and she waves me off. "Today, it's on us," she
says. "We'll see you tomorrow."

Of course you will.

Now, I'm off to smoke. I've even got a little extra time to go buy
some socks.

It's "Sofa King" hot outside.

103 degrees right now in the ruthless Valley sun. It's only 90 in
Nedrow, New York, but probably rainforest humid.

It'll be windy and colorful when I get back in a few weeks, and I
can't wait.

Things always seem better wherever I'm not.

Silence. Music's original alternative. Roots grunge.

Sometimes, you don't have to say anything at all. And to be honest
with you, saying nothing at all is one of my favorite things to do.

Every day, halfway through my shift, I take my hour-long lunch break.
Every day, halfway through my shift, I walk my happy ass outside to
smoke one cigarette, then on up to the Big Apple Deli. The staff
knows me there.

Every day, halfway through my shift, the waitresses smile, and say
"hello." They show me a seat, they pour me a Diet Pepsi.

By now, I know the menu, so most days I know what I want. I order, I
eat, I walk outside to smoke one more cigarette, and I go back to work.

Today, though. Well, today? Today, I walked into the deli, I sat
down, and my drink was on the table. Today I sat sipping Diet Pepsi
for twenty minutes. Today, I didn't eat lunch. Today, I smoked three
cigarettes on my hour-long lunch break.

After twenty minutes just sitting at the table sipping soda, I stood
up. I put two dollars on the table to cover the drink, and walked out.

The hostess said "have a good day!" as I strolled past her podium.
Wearing my earphones, listening to some live Todd Snider song on my
iPhone, I could pretend I didn't hear her.

Sometimes, you don't have to say anything at all.

Sent from my iPhone

Lunch.

So, what else?

So, wait. We made it all the way home, silly drunk, and we're not
going to box?

If I'd known that before, I would have made sure we got into an
accident on the way home.

Fuck. I need something about which to write.

Can you take me "High Enough"?

Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

All I want to do is get home and punch the shit out of Ryan for the
whole "relevance" comment, and before we get there, I'm forced to
endure this barrage of eighties music that would tear down the
endurance of even the most experienced and seasoned fighter.

The 80s rule.

So, Traci, who is driving us around, has a great CD full of 80's power
ballads. And Ryan and I decided to sing along with that CD at the top
of our lungs, with the windows down.

That's not cool. I've driven drunks around before. You want them to
stay as inconspicuous as possible.

So, rather than getting angry, Traci decides to show us her tattoo -
the "fallen angel" tattoo on the bottom of her back. She's a big
Poison fan.

And we get a little loud. In the middle of the restaurant.

Bob's Big Boy. In Burbank. The first Big Boy in America.

People are looking at us now. God I hope people want to beat us up
when we leave.

I can't tell you how much I want to fight someone right now.

Yo.

Nice mask.

"That chick on the stage, with the mask? I'd bang her. But only if she
kept the mask on. It would be a weird, Jason Voorhees kind of thing."

"That's not a hockey mask," Ryan said. "You might be mixing hockey up
with lacrosse."

"I'd never confuse that. Women aren't allowed to play lacrosse."

"You act like your culture's been relevant at any time in the past two
hundred years."

Ryan and I are boxing when we get home. It's not going to be pretty.

Good luck, Ryan.

Good luck.