On Saturday night, I had the honor of seeing the Black Lips play at the Black Cat in Washington, DC. I was accompanied by my friend Tommy (aka “Crab”) and his girlfriend, Holly. I love going out with the duo, as our adventures are always full of zany hijinks reminiscent of those experienced by Ferris, Sloan, and Cameron in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, but substituting enrollment in high school with unhealthy blood alcohol levels. Saturday night’s festivities fell in line with tradition.
Before meeting up with the couple to walk to the show, I concocted an outfit suitable for the occasion. I began with the following inputs:
-black sharpie marker
-V-neck undershirt
-panda mask that I bought from the zoo
The combination of the items resulted in the following output:
As indicated by the photo, I was ready for a night Chuck Full O’Idiocy.
Tommy and Holly met me at my girlfriend’s* apartment in Dupont Circle, where we enjoyed some delicious Sparks, and we soon headed off to the Black Cat.
We arrived at the venue to be greeted by a massive line. To pass the time, I attempted to scalp my ticket to the sold out show. No one was willing to pay the $1,000 price tag to a guy in a panda mask, so I resorted to amusing myself with a vodka-filled flask. Soon thereafter, we were through the doors and I was plastered.
One of the opening bands had me somewhat confused. I’m not sure of their name, nor am I impressed enough to even check it out on the ticket stub currently sitting in my pocket. They put on this bizarre puppet show towards the end of their set. I’m a big supporter of wacked-out stage antics, but the puppet show was a bit of a stretch for the event. The act would have made a lasting impression if it had fake blood and staged mutilation a la Gwar, but the mostly inaudible, dialogue-driven puppets left me tilting my head to the side like a confused dog.
A random guy approached us once the opening act ended, and he seemed to take an interest in Holly. I explained to the man how the opening band compared to Matchbox 20, and he agreed wholeheartedly. I didn’t know what the f*** I was even talking about, but he eventually moved along.
We slammed beers until the Black Lips finally came on. We were hanging out towards the back of the venue, but once the band started playing I couldn’t resist the urge to get up front and rage. It probably wasn’t the brightest idea, considering the fact that one of my ribs is most likely broken, but I’ve done dumber things in the past. I fought my way up to the very front and found myself staring into Jared Swilley’s eyes.
Most of the fans up front were smiling and singing along like it was a Barbara Streisand concert. Donning my panda mask, I waved the middle finger in the band member’s faces, while screaming how much they suck in between songs. Yelling to Swilley, “F*** YOUR MUSTACHE!”, he replied back with “F*** YOUR FACE!”.
Some dude turned to me and asked a perfectly appropriate question, “Why so much aggression man?”. I mean, I was a fan who paid money to see the group perform. My actions seemed nonsensical.
I summed up an explanation in my response to his question, “This isn’t Celine Dion man, this is grunge rock.”
If the Black Lips would like to maintain a reputation of keepin it real, then I’d hope that they would welcome some guy in a panda mask and “KILL YUPPIES” shirt screaming about how much they suck. If the group would rather play for an audience of devoted frat boys, then they might as well start touring with Fall Out Boy.
I continued my antics until the show ended, at which point we stumbled out of the venue and headed back in the direction of my girlfriend’s* apartment. Like Homer’s Odyssey, the journey home was filled with death and struggle.
If we happened to spot a colorful flower growing in front of a row house, it was violently ripped from the ground for no real reason at all. As I collected my handful of soon-to-be lifeless beauties, Tommy experienced some stomach problems.
Rather than simply stopping to vomit and dry heave, he tried to keep pace with Holly and me. The futile attempt at multi-tasking created the most ridiculous 100 meter walk that I have ever experienced. It was the human equivalent of a dog moving forward while dragging its ass over the ground – a bizarre act that nearly everyone is familiar with, yet no one knows exactly why it occurs. Most good friends would help the struggling individual by providing emotional comfort. We opted for pointing our fingers in Tommy’s face while laughing hysterically at his misfortune.
We eventually parted ways, I threw my flower collection to the ground (RIP), and made it inside the safe confines of my girlfriend’s* apartment. Once there, I put on Short Circuit 2 and passed out on her couch.
Overall, I’d say the night was a great success.
Chuckblog loves you more than Johnny 5. Come back in the future!
*- Believe it or not, I recently started seeing a girl. Although she warned against ever mentioning her in chuckblog, I think I’ll attempt to tackle this subject in tomorrow’s post. Check back for more.
the opener sounded like the b-52’s. i had to suppress the urge to scream ‘rock lobster!’
I know a dude that works for Sharpie. No big fucking deal.
You have a gift for making everything, from the slight to the extreme, vividly entertaining to read.
I pity the soon-to-be-written lady friend, however.
I’m baffled by the panda mask thing, but that could be because I’m a dumb jock.
ZOMG!! you like fall out boy too??
i was there too and i was drunk and i was singing, but it didn’t really feel like a celine dion concert, felt like a rape of the senses.