Metal, Goths, Vodka, and Vomit

As you might have deduced from last night’s post, this morning was one of those mornings when I walk into the bathroom, took a good, long look at myself in the mirror and ask the question “Chuck, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Last night, I was chilling on the couch watching a documentary on the Vice Lords street gang, planning on getting a good night’s sleep in preparation for final paper writing all day today. When the documentary ended, an idea popped into my head - ‘Chuck, you should do the exact opposite of going to bed early and getting a good night’s rest’. I laced up my sneakers and headed out on a quest of stupidity.

I walked the approximate mile distance to reach the handful of bars located in downtown Fairfax, VA. From a short distance, I could hear metal guitar riffs emanating from one of the establishments. I had found my target.

The bar was filled with two types of people: 1) Trench-coat-wearing, Matrix wannabes, and 2) your average, run-of-the-mill eyeliner/all-black clothes wearing goths. Although slightly different from one another, each seemed excited for the metal bands performing on stage. I took a seat at the bar and laid back in the cut.

Things got stranger and stranger as the night wore on and I took more shots of cheap vodka. Someone threw up all over the men’s bathroom, so the women’s bathroom served both genders at the same time. In the state that I was in, urinating in a stall next to some overweight goth girl blew my mind almost as much as the first time I visited Scottbrundage.com.

It was in the bathroom that I started interviewing some of these individuals. A girl wearing a shirt advertising the death metal band Opeth claimed that she has been frequenting the bar nearly every Thursday for the past 10 years. Some guy with multiple facial piercings stated that he came all the way from Richmond to see one of the bands. I asked another guy if he was a Republican or Democrat and he responded with a decisive “fuck off”. The bathroom became my interrogation room. Two girls asked me who the hell I was and why I was asking so many questions. I told them that I was a reporter. “For what?” they asked. “For the worst website on the internet” I responded. They left the bathroom.

While conducting my lavatory interviews, I was invited to an after-party by a couple of amused, incredibly unattractive girls. They told me that a big group would be going back to someone’s place to put on some music and keep the party going. There’s no way in hell I would’ve turned down that opportunity. However, when I left the bathroom and sat down on a stool just watching everyone, I’m pretty sure they realized that I was alone. I later caught them rushing from the bar while avoiding eye contact with me, which I interpreted as unofficially rescinding their offer. I officially became the creepiest guy in a bar full of dudes wearing eyeliner. Go figure.

When no other band got up on stage and the crowd dwindled down to a handful of people, I left the bar for my mile+ stumble home. I stopped at a 7-11 on the way and bought a chimichanga. When I got home, I posted on chuckblog, threw up the chimichanga, and called it a night.

The End.

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