Wednesday, September 1, 2010
By Trevor Nicholson
I didn’t know how deep my insecurities ran until I attended a concert alone. I was informed the night before the show that the super-group Them Crooked Vultures was playing at an intimate club out in Los Angeles where I live and that tix were available.
I debated buying two tickets in the hopes that one of my friends might join me. However I reconsidered due to the expensive ticket price, and the unreliable friends who I consort with.
There’s of course the option to scalp the ticket but I’m not really a scalper-guy. I don’t know what the etiquette is, and I don’t have a long, leather, trench coat.
On an impulse I bought a ticket and decided that I was going solo. I psyched myself up by saying to myself, “it’s just like going to a movie alone.” I like going to movies by myself. No distractions. I do however bring a notebook in case I run into someone I know. That way I can say that I’m doing research for my hugely, unsuccessful career in screenwriting.
I got to the show a bit early and walked around checking out the scene as I didn’t want to sit down in my seat alone and feel like a schmuck. After about five minutes of aimlessly meandering around I remembered that I’m not one to strike up a conversation with a stranger and I don’t like when a stranger strikes up a conversation with me. Therefore, I decided to suck it up and go to my seat.
On the way to my seat, I walked by the merchandising stand and observed people buying the TCV t-shirts and then putting them on over their existing t-shirts. I judgmentally said to myself, “what a bunch of losers. Wearing the t-shirt of the band you are going to see.”…Like I was one to talk. Just last week I bought a Phish t-shirt online from a concert that I wasn’t at. After buying the t-shirt I memorized the setlist to prepare myself for an accurate lie if someone should come up to me and reference the t-shirt.
I got up to my seat doing my best to avoid the usher. I like to think that I can handle the whole finding your own seat thing on my own. I’m perplexed, and by perplexed I mean disgusted by concert goers meager attempt to find their seat using their ticket. It’s not some complex algorithm to find your seat. The rows go in ascending order with letters and the number on your ticket is your seat number.
When I sat down it was still a bit early so the seat to my left was empty. I started getting excited imagining the possibilities of having a free seat next to me but decided not to jinx it and changed the subject in my head. To my right was a nice looking couple drinking water. So far, my environment seemed friendly. I hesitantly glanced around behind me to see if anyone was laughing and pointing at me because I was alone. Obviously no one was. Because no on cares and I bet there’s other people that regularly go to concerts alone and could care less of what other people think of them…I am not one of those people.
I even took out my Blackberry to kill time and pretend to look busy. I quickly came to the realization that I don’t have enough applications on my Blackberry to even pretend to look busy so I put it away.
Them Crooked Vultures took the stage and immediately I was blown away. Everyone stood up and began to head nod. My self-obsessed, insecure head said something like, “you better be bobbing your head in unison with the music. You don’t want to look stupid.”
I then had a moment of clarity where I said to myself, “maybe, just maybe, people are paying attention to this power trio of rock icons onstage and not looking at how I’m bobbing my head.”
TCV put on a strong ninety-plus set delivering every song off of their debut with tremendous success. After the third song I was able to get out of my head and appreciate what this night is all about. Watching a band perform live. At the end of the show I looked to my left and no one did ever show up. I didn’t even notice.
I’m still a self-obsessed, insecure person. That hasn’t changed. What has changed after going to see this show by myself is that the next time I want to see a show and can’t find anyone to go with me, I’m going to go alone. Maybe it might even be more entertaining. And maybe one day I’ll be outgoing and actually take the effort to talk to a total stranger…I’ll lie and say I’m a music journalist.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Seems like a good idea. Everyone loves a concert right? Wrong. Firstly, if you ask a girl to a concert and she agrees, she might not be into the artist or into music at all. Even if you ask her if she likes the artist she may say yes because she doesn’t want you to judge her on her musical taste…which of course you are doing.
If you don’t adhere to my warning and decide to take a girl to a concert make sure it’s seats and not general admission.
The general admission could turn into a terrible situation because there’s the risk of the ‘intoxicated-drunk-groper-guy,’ which is rare but is a possibility. In general admission if you go to the bathroom you might lose her for the rest of the night pondering the thought, ”did she leave or was she kidnapped?” You don’t want that kind of guilt on your conscious.
The real problems start when the artist starts to play live. You didn’t factor in that it’s a first date and the goal is to get to know each other. Now your only form of communication is yelling back and forth in each other’s ear pretending that you both can hear each other, which you can’t, but you both nod politely ‘yes,’ anyway.
If you want to dig deeper there’s the dancing aspect. She might start flapping and flailing like a drunken witch doctor and if you’re superficial like me this might be a huge turnoff. The opposite might occur as well if you go beyond the ‘head-nod’ and start to ‘let the music take control,’ and she starts judging you by your handclaps and syncopated-twirls.
Then there’s the alcohol. If you’re the guy who gets a beer every ten minutes (a raging alcoholic), she might get scared due to your intake and not want a second date. If she is a boozer this can backfire as you might be carrying her home, or she might in an attempt to be polite join you in your heavy consumption even though she’s not a drinker and throw up on you.
The plus of going to a concert on the first date is that you might get a second date out of it since you won’t have a chance to talk to each other, you bought the ticket, and she might feel bad for vomiting all over your go-too first date, perfectly wrinkled, linen-shirt.
1. The Coke Snorting Talker-These are the people that will continue to tap you throughout the whole concert insistent that you are interested in the fact that they met Mike Gordon once while he was driving a golf cart through the Bonnaroo campsite. They will tell you this story over and over and have no recollection that they’re repeating the same story.
Warning: If you try and tell them you can’t hear them over the music they will talk louder so you might as well let them talk at a volume that the music can be heard over.
2. The Shirtless Spinning Male-In hindsight this person means no harm as he’s just into the music and wants to dance. More power to him. I’m so self-conscious and insecure that if I start to dance I’m convinced the whole crowd will stop watching the band and start to watch me. I shouldn’t even use the word dance since all I do is throw an occasional fist pump in the air, and then glance around hoping that no one caught me. The bummer of the spinner is that he’s bound to get sweaty and he’s bound to rub up on you by accident on multiple occasions. He’s just trying to have a good time so try and shake it off, but it’s a Germaphobes worst nightmare as it’s very Along came Polly basketball scene esque. Attachment below:
3. The OD Victim-If you’ve attended enough concerts you’re going to be plagued with sitting next to the high-school sophomore who snuck out during the week with his or her friends to a concert and consume copious amounts of drugs and collapse in their chair. His or her friends are usually just as bamboozled and will insist that he or she is fine despite the fact that their friend is slumped in their chair, unconscious, and drooling with their eyes rolled in the back of their head.
This will ruin your concert experience if you have any morals, as you should get help with some EMTS on hand at the venue. But you’re doing a good cause, and helping somebody out.
You can then throw into conversation how you save somebody’s life.
“So how’s work? Work is good but what I am really passionate about is saving lives. Just last week I was at a concert….”
4. The Screamer-I get that people get excited but if you’re a screamer you need to gauge your surroundings. The general rule of thumb is to yell and scream before and after songs and during explosive moments in the song. Sporadic yelling is fun and if you’re confident enough with your humor maybe yell out a joke, as long as you’re not heckling the band or blurting out, “Play Free Bird.” Although I heard someone say that at a St. Patrick’s Day Bagpipe Parade which worked.
It’s the person who just screams for the entire concert. This person also typically seems to be the same person who decides to stand up when everyone is sitting down which is such a bummer if you’re sitting behind him or her.
5. The Fighter-I can’t remember the last time I saw this guy at a concert. I’m thinking the nineties, but you still got to be on your guard. One false move, like the spill of a drink on the wrong person’s shoe might trigger someone to go off. These guys typically exist at harder music concerts that are in a general admission venue. Although I once thought I was peeing in a cup and I was actually peeing on someone’s shoe that forced me to run out of the venue like the coward that I am. And that was at a String Cheese Incident concert so be careful.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
I might be reaching when I say that there are such thing as a good black out, but when you’re the kind of guy who likes to let their hair down to the point of ‘losing time,’ regularly then you have to have some sort of black out barometer.
We all know what a bad black out is. A bad black out is when you wake up in a foreign land and have no idea who you got there. This could be as simple as a friend’s couch. It could also mean next to some homely-pig with a condom wrapper on the nightstand (ha ha, I’m obviously kidding about the condom). Or, in a dumpster, in jail, or literally a foreign land.
You’ve probably lost your wallet and your cell phone. If you have your cell phone it’s filled with drunk texts and tons of voicemails from people calling you before you woke up to make sure that you are okay and to let you know all the awful things that you did the night before. It’s best to delete all of these without reading or listening to them. The last thing that you want to do is actually learn what a doucher you are when you under the influence. I say delete then move on. Onward and upward.
A good black out is when you wake up in your own bed. You haven’t peed it. You have your wallet and your phone and there are no weird, creepy texts to ex girlfriends and no voicemails. Before you can go back to bed you need to follow through with one more task to ensure that it was a good black out.
You call the guy that you were with the night before. When you call and he answers you say something like, “that was a bloodbath last night.” You then wait for his response. If it’s an immediate laugh then all is good. If there’s any pause and a hint of a fake laugh then you might have done something stupid. Regardless, you need to take the extra step. You need to come clean and tell him that you blacked out. If his response is, “really? I didn’t know that you were that drunk.” Then you’re good to go. If the response is, “no shit,” then it’s best to say you have another call, hang up and curl up in your bed for three days with your cell phone off till you’re ready to face the world again.
Keep in mind though. The guy who is telling you that you were fine the night before might just be saying that because he’s worried that if he told you what you actually did, then you wouldn’t hang out anymore with him because you might consider to quit drinking.
I know…I just blew your mind.
You ever read somebody’s status and it says, ‘Stuck in traffic, FML.’ Really? You’re stuck in traffic therefore your entire life is fucked. The only way that I think you could use FML I’m stuck in traffic is if you added on, ‘I am stuck in traffic and a goblin just jumped in my car and raped me. That’s a pretty legit time to use FML because you’re life is kind of fucked. You’re now pregnant with goblins and if you’re pro-life you have to give birth to the goblins and raise goblins without your goblin spouse. Because you know that a goblin isn’t going to be paying child support.
Mahogany Monday-this is when you huff mahogany varnish all the livelong day.
Testicle Tuesday-this is when you poke your own testicle with a small pin. With pain comes pleasure. I assume pleasure meaning, ‘buzz.’
Wipe Out Wednesday-self-explanatory. When you take a shit don’t wipe your ass and walk around smelling like pooh all day.
Thermos Thursday-again, pretty self-explanatory. Pee in a thermos all day and throw it on people who talk loudly on their cell phones in public.
Franken Berry Friday-Shove a cereal box of Franken’ Berry up your anus and try and walk around all day without spilling the marshmallows. You can then eat it at the end of the day as a celebration of sorts.
Sassafras Saturday-Build some pottery on heroin.
Super Terrific Sunday-Upper Deck a Church Bathroom.
Kind of makes sense. Moving into a retirement community is kind of like going to college. Except you are all rickety and wrinkly.
Perhaps, their husband or wife has passed on and they realize that they have an opportunity to get some hard geriatric, fucking in. For the guys it must be great. Getting head with just the gums.
Imagine running around the halls all hopped up on medication putting out your best moves. The best part is you always have medication to blame if you do anything stupid. Like suckling the teat of a lady who fell asleep during bingo.
But with all the fun comes the downside, and if you get a VD you’re going to be known as that VD guy unless you get it taken care of. What I recommend doing is get rid of the VD then tell everyone in the place who you got it from. “Stay away from Agatha in 302. The old bag has scorching case of the gonorrhea.” “Or, balled Mabel last month and doc told me she gave me syphilis. That might account for why I’ve been earnest in only taking my medication anally.”
Delegates at UN Conference voted to give Polar Bears and Blue Fin Tuna no protection internationally. -NYT
Who are these people? Don’t look at me like I’m the asshole when I walk in on you taking a deuce. And don’t use the ‘there’s no lock on the door,’ excuse. I myself will do whatever it takes to either notify someone trying to enter the stall door with a yell, “I’m in here and there’s no lock.” Or, if it’s a public restroom pretend that you are talking on the phone to let perspective shit taker know that someone is in the stall so they won’t attempt to open it.
And if there’s a lock and you forgot to lock you’re dead to me.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
These are the five stories that I am going to tell if I ever get on Jeopardy and win the full week. I don’t see myself going much longer than five days.
Alex Trebek: It says here that you had sex in an alley in New York City while the sun was out?
Me: Funny story Alex. I had gotten off work early that day and was getting good and loaded with a buddy of mine and we happened to have gotten familiar with a couple of broads that we were chatting up.
Things go a little hazy after that but before you know if I’m plowing this broad in an alley behind the bar and the funniest thing was that it was her first day in New York.
Alex Trebek: It says here that you once double team two hookers and ran out without paying?
Me: Funny story Alex. I was in a full black out and when I cam too I’m fucking a hooker in the ass while the other is doing body lines of coke off the other’s gash. Not knowing where I was and assuming that I had no money I pink socked the whore and got the f out of dodge.
Alex Trebek: It says here that you once had sex with a jar of mint jelly?
Me: Funny story Alex, I was fifteen years old and really getting into loving myself strong multiple times on a daily basis. I decided to take it up a notch and fuck a condiment. A jam type of substance was what I was looking for. I saw the jelly and just went for it. The kicker was that we were eating lamb that night and my mom didn’t know what happened to the jelly. Don’t worry we didn’t use it.
Alex Trebek: It says here you paid a hooker extra to lick you asshole?
Me: Funny story Alex. I was getting it done with some strumpet one night and I thought I would spice it up with a little ass licking. It wasn’t so much for the pleasure of the feeling but more to the fact that I was shitting all night from the excessive cocaine and was sure that she would be licking tons of my dingleberrys. I did like it though.
Alex: It says here that you killed a drifter one time just to get an erection?
Me: Funny story Alex. I made that up. I did fuck a dude at a rest stop once though.
So I moved to Florida. In my opinion there are two reasons why you move to Florida. One is that you are old and rickety and have decided to spend the rest of your life in a sunny environment. The second is to hide. I fell into the second although I didn’t know it at the time.
My dramatic, ill-prepared move was because I had exhausted all of my resources in New York City and needed a change in my life. Translation, a girl dumped me, I was drinking way too much, I didn’t give a shit about work, and I blamed the city of New York for my crappy life. It’s much easier to blame a city than blame yourself. I highly recommend it.
Luckily for me, my codependent mother who had absolutely no concept of the job market suggested that I move in with her and my stepfather to their house in Naples. My mother told me that Naples Florida had a wealth of job opportunities that would suit me. I of course decided not to do any research and trust a sixty-year-old woman who’s never worked a day in her life and take her up on her offer.
I learned quickly that my mother had no idea what she was talking about when referencing the booming economy in Florida. I think she was using a homosexual antique salesman roughly my age as her economic reference.
“A gentleman your age by the name of Troy runs a lovely antique shop downtown. Have you ever thought about antiquing?”
One time my mother even told me that a local butcher was hiring and I should inquire about the job. I wasn’t opposed to blue-collar work, referring to the butchering, but I thought I might be able to find a better opportunity where I could use my skills that I acquired while working in various job in NYC lying to bosses, staring at blank pieces of paper, and coming up with original ways to call in sick.
“There’s a flood in my apartment!” or, “My roommate just had a seizure and I need to carry him to the hospital.”
I also bought all these Brooks Brothers, striped ties at the outlet down the road and wanted to put them to good use.
A month had gone by and my networking techniques had not proven as effective as I thought they would be. I would wake up at the crack of noon, and drive my mothers Volkswagen Bug (the new shitty kind, not that the old one was much more masculine) to a bar or restaurant to eat lunch. My stepfather wouldn’t let me drive his Lexus because he was so sick and tired of having me as a roommate and thought that this would be a suitable punishment. To this day, I’ve never seen a male drive one of those Menopause Vehicles. At the bar, I would sit by myself and proceed to drink enough booze until I was confident enough to inquire to the bartender about any job openings.
I can’t believe I became the creepy, solo, day drinker guy. The hardest part for me was finding that happy medium where I was confident enough to talk to the bartender, while being careful not to drink too much where I would wreck my mother’s car. If I did feel a little too tipsy to drive, my drunken brain would tell me that it’s daytime and there’s no way that I will get caught. It told me that when it rained and snowed as well. My drunken brain lived a very reckless life and didn’t like to think about consequences.
I would gauge on whether the bartender was worth talking to by seeing if he or she would join me in an afternoon shot. I liked Sambucca during the day, because it made my breath smell minty. It was like mouthwash for alcoholics.
I had almost given up hope and was wasting my days hanging out at Harrys Bar, which had a reputation as being the seediest bar in Naples. It was an outdoor bar where you could hack butts and I personally liked it because of all the characters that would frequent the place. I was convinced that all the patrons were scofflaws and it made me feel kind of cool to be with my own kind. You see, I was once arrested for public urination at my alma mater. A liberal arts school in upstate New York. Therefore I too knew the cold hand of the law. Harrys was nice ego booster for me. Especially the plethora of hideous older women, drunk on draft Miller Lite, who would stumble over to me and whisper disgusting sexual favors that they were willing to do to me in the backseat of a car. Not their car because they usually didn’t have a license or didn’t own a car but they just needed A car. They usually had no sense of depth perception due to their inebriated state and I would always be amazed at the crinkles in their skin that could probably tell a story that would both shock, amaze, and might even make me dry heave, all at the same time. “If only those crinkles could talk.”
This particular day I was lunching on Catfish while guzzling Bud Bottles with a Jameson back when Rob the bartender came over and told me that his friend Big-John was looking for a bartender at his establishment. Just when I thought I was out of luck an opportunity comes my way. I thanked Rob and gave Big -John a call.
Two days later I’m sitting on a bar stool At The Beacon Bowling Alley wearing a Hugo Boss suit waiting for Big-John to interview me for a bartending position. “Look how far I’ve come,” I depressingly thought to myself. Since it was the morning it was relatively quiet and the lights were turned off in the bar area.
A cook with his neck covered in jailhouse tats with a hair cut that might have come free with a Megadeth ticket in 1992, carrying a gargantuan 7 Eleven Big Gulp Cup, emerged from the kitchen and creeped up behind the bar. There’s something about a man who has neck tattoos that just says, “I’ve pretty much have given up on ever trying to make a good first impression.” Unaware that I was watching, Tattoo-Cook-Guy put his big gulp under the Jagermeister machine and pressed the pour button. The machine started to rattle making a noise similar to a lawn mower, which I assumed was because it was the Jager Meister machines maiden voyage of the day being that it was nine am. After filling the big gulp with Jager the cook grabbed two Red- Bulls filling his cup to the top and placed the lid on it.
The cook slithered underneath the bar to escape back to the kitchen undetected when he noticed me and knew that I had busted him during his morning ritual of getting his breakfast power drink. I chuckled and gave him an approving glance trying to show that I didn’t care and I too was down with drinking at unusual times throughout the day. The cook gave me a surly, evil eye not giving a fuck that I saw him helping himself to the bar’s fixins’ and walked away while sipping on his 40 ounce Jager and Red Bull.
Seconds later, I heard the delicate patter of footsteps and turned to see that Big-John had walked right up next to me. I might have even called him Enormous- John since he was that large. I was so confused how he got so close to me while being so quiet. I even looked down at his shoes to make sure he wasn’t wearing any special ninja boots with the toe thingy’s.
Big-John was pushing four hundred pounds. He was all smiles and seemed very friendly and warm. I liked jolly, fat people. Big-John reached out his swollen fingers to shake my hand and I nearly fell off the bar stool from his grip. He laughed out loud hard watching himself inflict pain on my fragile city slicker hand. His laugh was real boisterous. I couldn’t help but imagine Santa Claus having the same laugh, after one to many eggnogs.
We made small talk for a little bit and he asked me if I saw the Cook sneak behind the bar for his morning breakfast drink. Big-John explained that it’s hard to find someone willing to get up a 6am to cook so management looks the other way when that Jagermeister Machine starts to roar.
Big-John held himself well and had a leadership quality that I admired. I knew that I wouldn’t mind working under him. After talking longer I got the impression that Big-John was the man to know throughout the town. More specifically I felt like he had his fingers in a lot of shady operations. He was like the Boss Tweed of the dive bar scene…which I thought was cool.
I was getting a good vibe from Big-John that he was liking me as he decided to sit down and get comfortable on the bar stool adjacent from me to conduct the rest of interview. As he was doing most of the talking during this time I began to size up his wardrobe. I was curious as to what a man of his stature wears to be comfortable. He had on this enormous bowling shirt that I thought fit in well considering that I was applying for a job at a bowling alley. What really got to me though was his, tight, denim, shorts. Why in the hell would a man of such proportion wear shorts that were skintight?
Then the unthinkable happened. Big-John adjusted his sitting pose and I don’t know if the rip in the denim-jean-shorts occurred during the adjustment or had been there the whole time but all at once his entire penis was protruding out of his pants in a hole right next to the zipper.
I didn’t know what to do. All I could do was just try to keep eye contact but even with eye contact, the peripherals of my lower corneas were catching glances of his exposed dong. My mind was spinning. “Does he know? Is he doing this as a test?” Then I started thinking, “How the fuck can he not know that his dick is exposed? The change in temperature alone would be cause enough for him to excuse himself and put on a cloak or something.”
I made it through the interview not being able to retain one thing that Big- John said and when I came out of the penis black out I was shaking hands accepting the job as the new Beacon Bowling Alley Bartender.
I had finally made it to the big time.
I’m curious as to what I’m going to do with myself when I get old and rickety. I am of course going to drive my car without any mirrors but that’s only going to be fun to get me around.
I know it’s a long shot but I’m going to throw it out there. If anyone knows how to get into the Old People Who Hang Out At McDonalds and Drink One Cup of Coffee Crew, please let me know. I’m willing to go through the initiation process of talking really loud, having dirt on my face and missing the toilet when pooping.
Thanks in advance.
I find that a lot of new fathers talk about how they must need a gun in the house for protection.
I’ve shot a gun off a couple of times and frankly it scared the bejesus out of me.
The thing is if all my friends have guns I want one too. I should probably get a baby first though.
I’m just a little worried that if I cut myself on a carrot peeler regularly I’m certainly doomed to shoot myself at some point right?
In the famous words of Austin Powes, “who doesn’t like the smell of their own brand.” I love the smell of my own stank ass but society deems is innaprorpriate in public for good reason….it stinks. One of the few places where I can really soak in my scent (besides when I stick my hand in my own ass-cheeks after a sweaty workout) is in the car.
I like to roll up the windows and really get my stank on.
Recently however, I’ve gotten fearful that my stank fro hotboxing my car with my own ass had clung to my clothing causing me to walk around and be known as stinky guy.
Luckily for me, I have no friends otherwise I would be worried.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
How fucking pissed would you be if a close friend/family member hit the lottery and then called you three days later and said "We decided to go for the annuity payments instead of the lump sum. We met with a financial planner and it makes sense for us. Instead of the $20 million right now we are going to get $400,000 a year the until I die. As long as I live past 60 we will come out ahead. I know $20 mil sounds great, but you lose so much in taxes and we might just blow through it so we are making the smart move....Oh yeah, you know that million dollars I promised you when I called you all drunk after I checked my ticket, looks like I'm just going to be able to give you $25 grand a year for the next 40 years" Under normal circumstances a friend offering you $25k/year sounds great, but at that moment I might tell that fucker to shove his $25k up his ass and that if I ever see him again I will make sure that his state lottery commission 'comes out ahead' by killing him on the spot.
Why do they even offer these annuity payments? When was the last time someone took the payments instead of the lump some. I don't give a shit how much sense it makes and how much they take in taxes, as long as that fucking lump some check had two commas in it I'm cashing it.
I saw a show on the USFL that said some team owner had given away "a million dollars" as a publicity stunt at one of the games. They showed the greasy ass, USFL fan that won the drawing all excited at halftime yelling into the microphone. The catch was that it was $50k for 20 years...STARTING 20 YEARS FROM THE DAY HE WON! That is a big 'catch'. So this guy had to wait 20 years before he started getting his $50k/year. What good would that do you? Last strip club I was in the dancer didn't except promissory notes redeamable in 2029. How far in the whole would this guy be 20 years from when he won? How many times would he have borrowed money from his buddies, "Jim, loan me 5 grand. You know I'm good for it, I'm a fucking millionaire." That sucker had to go back to his job pouring concrete or hanging dry wall the thinking "Twenty years from now I'm going to tell my boss to Fuck Off!" Fuck that, I would rather catch a tee shirt from an air cannon. At least I could rip the sleeves off, tie them around my head all while making the pretend 'wiping my ass' motion with the tee shirt between my legs trying to get on the stadium big screen. I guess I'm a sucker for immediate gratification.
Classic movie. It's got everything.
- ► 2009 (193)