To clear up any existing doubt.
There is still love in the world for a drunk.
And for those that disagree.
I'm sorry about what I said and what I spilled and what I did. But no, not really. I'm serious. I'm just kidding. I love you.
Entry into a series of events that would ulimately prove righteous. To my right a plastic bag strained with the weight of 24oz bottles and to the left a round-trip Long Beach to Penn.
This would be day one of three, Mindless Self Indulgence makes the kids dance. An entire weekend soaked in their perspiration.
The venue had the hilarious idea that people would flood in and just kinda stand there all three nights. Pink flyers marked with the anti-fun decree: No dancing, moshing, stage diving. First night filled with the threats of monstrous security golems and gigantic headaches. My attempt to give a big fuck you to the camera (for the dvd they were filming) concerning the cunt bag venue spewed out as garbled unintelligible mess. The charming side of drunk.
Standing alone in my kitchen, splitting skull at sunrise.
I go to the toolbox, grab a hammer and put a few dents in my bookcase.
And now I can sleep.
Day Two and off to the races. Southside Seaport and Long Island Ice Tea's on the house. Becoming blitzkreiged under a scorching sun. At the show MC Chris kicks the jams. Hundreds of people screaming Robitussin, his signature across my bootleg Pokemon tee. On comes Mindless, Lil Jimmy Urine tears and throws out the pink warning flyers. Mayhem ensues.
This is the experience I know and cherish. Nobody fucking falls.
An evening too early, it's to the local dive bars, dancing with ugly girls to pass them off to people I somewhat like, and laughing my face off. Get yours. Do your thing.
I want no part of this.
"Hi my name is Margarita"
"Your parents must of been drunk".
Finding the quickest way out of the equation.
Let them do the avoiding for you.
Talking with ol' schoolboyz, about the what and the now. Skirmish ignites to the right of me. I don't recognize it's my best friends wrestling in a cigarette ridden puddle, until the one who pounced swings a hard right fist, just grazing his face. Things get ugly and I pull the pouncer across traffic to the pounce-ed's place of residence. He goes to sleep like a baby to Europe's The Final Countdown, only to awake later that morning to cover a bathroom floor with the contents of his digestive tract. I pick up a phone and talk with a drink for what seems like hours outside on a dock overlooking the bay. I'll eventually make it to sleep.
Rise and shine. Sunday morning. And I get to do it all over again. Photoshoots with Nefaria, who points me out with a ONE, MORE, PANIC. Inside everybody knows each other, two days of celebration behind us. Comrades and pitchers of Sam Adams. High fives and hugs, falling out of moshpits, crawling to vomit and jumping
...tbcont
There is still love in the world for a drunk.
And for those that disagree.
I'm sorry about what I said and what I spilled and what I did. But no, not really. I'm serious. I'm just kidding. I love you.
Entry into a series of events that would ulimately prove righteous. To my right a plastic bag strained with the weight of 24oz bottles and to the left a round-trip Long Beach to Penn.
This would be day one of three, Mindless Self Indulgence makes the kids dance. An entire weekend soaked in their perspiration.
The venue had the hilarious idea that people would flood in and just kinda stand there all three nights. Pink flyers marked with the anti-fun decree: No dancing, moshing, stage diving. First night filled with the threats of monstrous security golems and gigantic headaches. My attempt to give a big fuck you to the camera (for the dvd they were filming) concerning the cunt bag venue spewed out as garbled unintelligible mess. The charming side of drunk.
Standing alone in my kitchen, splitting skull at sunrise.
I go to the toolbox, grab a hammer and put a few dents in my bookcase.
And now I can sleep.
Day Two and off to the races. Southside Seaport and Long Island Ice Tea's on the house. Becoming blitzkreiged under a scorching sun. At the show MC Chris kicks the jams. Hundreds of people screaming Robitussin, his signature across my bootleg Pokemon tee. On comes Mindless, Lil Jimmy Urine tears and throws out the pink warning flyers. Mayhem ensues.
This is the experience I know and cherish. Nobody fucking falls.
An evening too early, it's to the local dive bars, dancing with ugly girls to pass them off to people I somewhat like, and laughing my face off. Get yours. Do your thing.
I want no part of this.
"Hi my name is Margarita"
"Your parents must of been drunk".
Finding the quickest way out of the equation.
Let them do the avoiding for you.
Talking with ol' schoolboyz, about the what and the now. Skirmish ignites to the right of me. I don't recognize it's my best friends wrestling in a cigarette ridden puddle, until the one who pounced swings a hard right fist, just grazing his face. Things get ugly and I pull the pouncer across traffic to the pounce-ed's place of residence. He goes to sleep like a baby to Europe's The Final Countdown, only to awake later that morning to cover a bathroom floor with the contents of his digestive tract. I pick up a phone and talk with a drink for what seems like hours outside on a dock overlooking the bay. I'll eventually make it to sleep.
Rise and shine. Sunday morning. And I get to do it all over again. Photoshoots with Nefaria, who points me out with a ONE, MORE, PANIC. Inside everybody knows each other, two days of celebration behind us. Comrades and pitchers of Sam Adams. High fives and hugs, falling out of moshpits, crawling to vomit and jumping
...tbcont
I could never get into MSI as much as I have tried. Weird...they seemed like they'd be right up my alley.