"Silent night for the rest of my life/Violent knight at the edge of your knife"
Hello, Livejournal. It's been a while. I've forgotten to tell you many things these past days, like my last day of school, how I snapped by ankle playing Lava Monster, how my best friend ended a 4 1/2 year long relationship because of a video game, or how a pair of Jehovah's witnesses made me question the reality of God.
But that's old news now. Journalist write the now, historians write the then. Now, I'm soaked in sweat from multiple people and beer, I reek of half a dozen different chemicals, the ringing in my ears isn't going away, I've got more than 100 oz of fluid in my stomach and I'm starting to see shit. How did I get here?
I'm glad you asked, Dan.
I woke up this morning when my cat Shadow decided my feet would make an awesome pillow and wouldn't take a damned hint when I tried kicking him off my bed. I decided that today was a stay at home day for me, and I told my parents I'm not going to go to work today.
They then gave me a massive list of things to do at home. Shit.
Once Scrubs was done, I threw a load of laundry into the washing machine, got in my grubby's and dragged out our ancient lawn mower. It's red, has the word "Snapper" on the front, and works as well as a dead fish, so I call him the Red Snapper. The funny thing about our house is that my dad is a landscaper, yes, but our exterior is so sloppy you'd never know it. So it was up to me to lug out the bright red and rust machine and fire it up.
I say fire it up because there is a chance this thing might actually catch on fire.
Halfway through the mowing, it dies, and I have to scour my house for a wrench to pry open the gas tank and pour some more Middle East Mohito into the beast's belly and start mowing again. The white metal handle of the Red Snapper leaves a weird metallic stench on my hands, so a shower is always required post-mowing. But I also had to power-wash the back porch because the wood has turned green with mold and weeds populate the paver walkways. Now, I could get on my hands and knees and pull the weeds, and I could scrub this mold off with my hands and a sponge, OR I could do the American thing and blast it all away with 1300 PSI of water blasting from a device called the "Water Wand."
Aim it correctly at the base of the weeds and they snap off and wash away into grass. And if you blast long enough into the wood, the green stuff just flakes away, but be careful, as it might splinter the wood as well.
I put my clothes in the dryer and I put myself in the shower. Ma bought a new shampoo and my hair smells like a summer field. Well, it used to at least.
Once I was so fresh and so clean clean, I took the money left on the table and went to VG's to buy some foods. Yeah, my mom left me her Krogers card to get the discount, but I know a lot more people at VG's, like Jolene, Krissy, Lindsey, Trevor, Other Trevor, April, Debbie, That one guy from my junior Math class who really liked The Matrix, and many other people. I bought lots of stuff I shouldn't be eating in the first place and went home.
As I unloaded groceries from Margaret's trunk, my sorta-kinda cousin Robie Folkerts showed up. The funny thing about the Algonac/Marine City region is that, chances are, through blood or marraige, the residents of that neck of the woods are related to me. I think, and the details are sketchy, my dad's uncle Buck married Folkert's great-aunt something-or-another, and we're second cousins twice removed, or something. I think. Maybe. Next time your in Algonac, certainly if you stop by Derek Elliot's place, you'll see Folkert road, named after the family.
Yet there is no Simons road in all of Algonac or Marine City. I blame Batman. Fucking asshole.
Some time ago, Folkerts informed me of a Billy Talent concert coming to Detroit. He wanted to go, and I said I wanted to go as well. He bought the tickets and waited for that night to come. That concert was tonight.
Into his golden chariot and off on an adventure, but only for a few minutes until we hit the I-94 traffic. We killed the time by listening to the radio and talking about our friends. But in a good way cus we're cool like that. Folkerts went to his optometrist to have them fix his glasses seeing as how we were out that way. After trying on a few pairs of thick rimmed emo-glasses and a few Aviators, we wanted some dinner.
Most places in East Pointe don't have sit in places and the drive thru's give you your food through a bullet proof window. We made the trek to Roseville to eat at Red Robin.
REB ROBIN, YUM.
I had this colossal burger with like a inch of fried onions and a BBQ sauce concocted by the gods themselves. Lettuce, onion, tomato, and what appeared to be half a cow worth of beef. A barrel of fries and a jug of soda. Yeah, I'm exaggerating, but I was hungry as fuck and it was all good.
I asked to stop at a gas station to piss and get a can of energy drink so I could be properly fueled for the concert. The station was filthy as hell, so I didn't even bother urinating. I got a Lo-carb Monster and we charged toward St. Andrew's Hall. Who the hell was Saint Andrew anyway? Let me check.
K. Lil' bro of Saint Peter, patron saint of musicians, performers, fisherman, rope makers, and Easter European Army Rangers.
We payed way too much for parking and waited in like. On the side of the building, in large white graffiti, is the tag "bilko." Folkerts knows who bilko is, and you can see his tags various other places. It kinda made the world seem connected, like it all came full circle. Remember, it's a mural if the government likes it, graffiti if they don't. The walls of the alley of St. Andy's is crammed with band names, myspace links, and the various messages of those who waited in line.
It wasn't long before we were in. The place is small, but in a cool way. Standing room only, we stood about five people behind the stage and right between the two speaker towers. People started coming in and the stage was being set. This was going to be a fun night. The first band was a local group called Hifi Handgrenade and they were pretty good, generic, but they go the crowed worked up. The bassist looked like he was forty and cross-eyed. Next was a band touring with Billy Talent called Drive By. They were alright, not as energetic, but the lead singers sarcasm between songs was pretty funny. Unless he's so emo that is his natural tone... damned kids today, you can never tell. Finally, the stage was being set up and the crowed chanted "Billy, Billy" and was damned eager to get started.
Then they came on stage.
Everyone went nuts when the guitarist walked on stage and strummed the first few chords of "Red Flag," their new single. The drummer and bassist started in as well, and finally the lead singer came on stage and shit just hit the fan. As soon as he sung, the lights behind him erupted and soaked the crowd in light. Everyone knew the words, everyone started jumping, and shit was fucking loud. The whole damned show only went stronger, as the mosh pits grew bigger and bigger. Trying to stand still and not get involved is a futile effort I soon learned, and Folkerts was being a little bitch and kept pushing me into the fray. I would have got fucking crazy had my glasses not constantly been slipping off. One right move and they would have slid right off.
Would? Wait, they did.
We were five people from the stage and in the center. Then we were 8 people behind, and to the left. Then we were 4 people from the stage and to the right. One guy crowd surfing needed to balance his leg after someone let go, so he swung his leg up and nailed me in the cheek, sending my glasses flying. Another guy came out of nowhere and tackled the guy in front of me. He reacted by grabbing my shoulder and taking me down as well, and my glasses bounced once on the floor. I grabbed them a mere second before a foot slammed right where they were. I raised me hand, spectacles clenched in fist, and three hands grabbed my arm to help me up. Sure, moshing can be viscous, but the first rule is to pick up anyone on the floor immediately. I also wound up taking a chin to the back of my head, a beer to the chest, the trail of a sailing water bottle, and the sweat, smell, heat and pressure of half a hundred people pushing me in a dozen directions. The body heat off all these people made the closer-to-the-stage area a smelly sauna. But give it a few seconds and you'll be pushed to a different part of the hall.
Yeah, you all know this already, you've probably been to more concerts than I have. That's half the reason I wanted to go, the only other real concert I've been too is a Weird Al concert I went to in sixth grade, and the only person who was doing anything violent, smelly or bizarre was Al himself.
Folkerts managed to keep me in visual range the whole time, even when we were forced to either side of the hall. Getting pummeled by sweat soaked guys isn't cool, but it was totally cool because I was also pummeled by sweat soaked ladies, and that's always a plus. When Billy Talent ended, the crowd didn't stop chanting. They started to take down a microphone when we made our "Encore!" louder, and the stagehand ran off stage as the lead singer ran back on stage and grabbed the microphone. They played five more songs, and ending the whole thing with a reprise of "Red Flag" where they dragged it on for a dozen minutes, letting us sing the chorus over and over again. Finally, it ended, and the guys left the stage to a roar of noise. People went to go buy stuff, and Folkerts bought a shirt. I told the second guitarist for Hifi Handgrenade his hair was awesome. He said mine was better. I also ran into Stephanie Doppke, who I saw changing a light before Billy got on stage. We talked for a bit and I told her to tell the band I said hey.
Out into the cool Detroit air, the city was alive tonight and people were everywhere. The air hit my sweat soaked clothes and woke me right the hell up. I slammed the remainder of my Monster in a single chugging. On the way home, we stopped at a 7-11 for some slurpee's and I tried the new Full Throttle slurpee, which tasted like mango, orange, and liquid awesome. Then Folkerts dropped me off at my house, where my feet weren't working right, my clothes were wet, my ears were ringing and my voice was gone. My parents were asleep, my sister was doing her end of the year Senior projects, and my brother was playing Supreme commander.
I wrote this all in that weird combination of tired-as-hell-but-wired-as-fuck, so I'm not sure if this is even in English. Eventually, the two refills of water in my 44oz cup will flush out the chemicals soon and I'll be off to bed, where my body will try to recover before I get sent back to the labor of being a landscaper's child.
Cast off the crutch that kills the pain
The Red Flag waving never meant the same
The kids of tomorrow don't need today
When they live in the sins of yesterday
Like a fire
Don't need water
Like a jury
Needs a liar
Like a riot
Don't need order
Like a madman
Needs a martyr
But that's old news now. Journalist write the now, historians write the then. Now, I'm soaked in sweat from multiple people and beer, I reek of half a dozen different chemicals, the ringing in my ears isn't going away, I've got more than 100 oz of fluid in my stomach and I'm starting to see shit. How did I get here?
I'm glad you asked, Dan.
I woke up this morning when my cat Shadow decided my feet would make an awesome pillow and wouldn't take a damned hint when I tried kicking him off my bed. I decided that today was a stay at home day for me, and I told my parents I'm not going to go to work today.
They then gave me a massive list of things to do at home. Shit.
Once Scrubs was done, I threw a load of laundry into the washing machine, got in my grubby's and dragged out our ancient lawn mower. It's red, has the word "Snapper" on the front, and works as well as a dead fish, so I call him the Red Snapper. The funny thing about our house is that my dad is a landscaper, yes, but our exterior is so sloppy you'd never know it. So it was up to me to lug out the bright red and rust machine and fire it up.
I say fire it up because there is a chance this thing might actually catch on fire.
Halfway through the mowing, it dies, and I have to scour my house for a wrench to pry open the gas tank and pour some more Middle East Mohito into the beast's belly and start mowing again. The white metal handle of the Red Snapper leaves a weird metallic stench on my hands, so a shower is always required post-mowing. But I also had to power-wash the back porch because the wood has turned green with mold and weeds populate the paver walkways. Now, I could get on my hands and knees and pull the weeds, and I could scrub this mold off with my hands and a sponge, OR I could do the American thing and blast it all away with 1300 PSI of water blasting from a device called the "Water Wand."
Aim it correctly at the base of the weeds and they snap off and wash away into grass. And if you blast long enough into the wood, the green stuff just flakes away, but be careful, as it might splinter the wood as well.
I put my clothes in the dryer and I put myself in the shower. Ma bought a new shampoo and my hair smells like a summer field. Well, it used to at least.
Once I was so fresh and so clean clean, I took the money left on the table and went to VG's to buy some foods. Yeah, my mom left me her Krogers card to get the discount, but I know a lot more people at VG's, like Jolene, Krissy, Lindsey, Trevor, Other Trevor, April, Debbie, That one guy from my junior Math class who really liked The Matrix, and many other people. I bought lots of stuff I shouldn't be eating in the first place and went home.
As I unloaded groceries from Margaret's trunk, my sorta-kinda cousin Robie Folkerts showed up. The funny thing about the Algonac/Marine City region is that, chances are, through blood or marraige, the residents of that neck of the woods are related to me. I think, and the details are sketchy, my dad's uncle Buck married Folkert's great-aunt something-or-another, and we're second cousins twice removed, or something. I think. Maybe. Next time your in Algonac, certainly if you stop by Derek Elliot's place, you'll see Folkert road, named after the family.
Yet there is no Simons road in all of Algonac or Marine City. I blame Batman. Fucking asshole.
Some time ago, Folkerts informed me of a Billy Talent concert coming to Detroit. He wanted to go, and I said I wanted to go as well. He bought the tickets and waited for that night to come. That concert was tonight.
Into his golden chariot and off on an adventure, but only for a few minutes until we hit the I-94 traffic. We killed the time by listening to the radio and talking about our friends. But in a good way cus we're cool like that. Folkerts went to his optometrist to have them fix his glasses seeing as how we were out that way. After trying on a few pairs of thick rimmed emo-glasses and a few Aviators, we wanted some dinner.
Most places in East Pointe don't have sit in places and the drive thru's give you your food through a bullet proof window. We made the trek to Roseville to eat at Red Robin.
REB ROBIN, YUM.
I had this colossal burger with like a inch of fried onions and a BBQ sauce concocted by the gods themselves. Lettuce, onion, tomato, and what appeared to be half a cow worth of beef. A barrel of fries and a jug of soda. Yeah, I'm exaggerating, but I was hungry as fuck and it was all good.
I asked to stop at a gas station to piss and get a can of energy drink so I could be properly fueled for the concert. The station was filthy as hell, so I didn't even bother urinating. I got a Lo-carb Monster and we charged toward St. Andrew's Hall. Who the hell was Saint Andrew anyway? Let me check.
K. Lil' bro of Saint Peter, patron saint of musicians, performers, fisherman, rope makers, and Easter European Army Rangers.
We payed way too much for parking and waited in like. On the side of the building, in large white graffiti, is the tag "bilko." Folkerts knows who bilko is, and you can see his tags various other places. It kinda made the world seem connected, like it all came full circle. Remember, it's a mural if the government likes it, graffiti if they don't. The walls of the alley of St. Andy's is crammed with band names, myspace links, and the various messages of those who waited in line.
It wasn't long before we were in. The place is small, but in a cool way. Standing room only, we stood about five people behind the stage and right between the two speaker towers. People started coming in and the stage was being set. This was going to be a fun night. The first band was a local group called Hifi Handgrenade and they were pretty good, generic, but they go the crowed worked up. The bassist looked like he was forty and cross-eyed. Next was a band touring with Billy Talent called Drive By. They were alright, not as energetic, but the lead singers sarcasm between songs was pretty funny. Unless he's so emo that is his natural tone... damned kids today, you can never tell. Finally, the stage was being set up and the crowed chanted "Billy, Billy" and was damned eager to get started.
Then they came on stage.
Everyone went nuts when the guitarist walked on stage and strummed the first few chords of "Red Flag," their new single. The drummer and bassist started in as well, and finally the lead singer came on stage and shit just hit the fan. As soon as he sung, the lights behind him erupted and soaked the crowd in light. Everyone knew the words, everyone started jumping, and shit was fucking loud. The whole damned show only went stronger, as the mosh pits grew bigger and bigger. Trying to stand still and not get involved is a futile effort I soon learned, and Folkerts was being a little bitch and kept pushing me into the fray. I would have got fucking crazy had my glasses not constantly been slipping off. One right move and they would have slid right off.
Would? Wait, they did.
We were five people from the stage and in the center. Then we were 8 people behind, and to the left. Then we were 4 people from the stage and to the right. One guy crowd surfing needed to balance his leg after someone let go, so he swung his leg up and nailed me in the cheek, sending my glasses flying. Another guy came out of nowhere and tackled the guy in front of me. He reacted by grabbing my shoulder and taking me down as well, and my glasses bounced once on the floor. I grabbed them a mere second before a foot slammed right where they were. I raised me hand, spectacles clenched in fist, and three hands grabbed my arm to help me up. Sure, moshing can be viscous, but the first rule is to pick up anyone on the floor immediately. I also wound up taking a chin to the back of my head, a beer to the chest, the trail of a sailing water bottle, and the sweat, smell, heat and pressure of half a hundred people pushing me in a dozen directions. The body heat off all these people made the closer-to-the-stage area a smelly sauna. But give it a few seconds and you'll be pushed to a different part of the hall.
Yeah, you all know this already, you've probably been to more concerts than I have. That's half the reason I wanted to go, the only other real concert I've been too is a Weird Al concert I went to in sixth grade, and the only person who was doing anything violent, smelly or bizarre was Al himself.
Folkerts managed to keep me in visual range the whole time, even when we were forced to either side of the hall. Getting pummeled by sweat soaked guys isn't cool, but it was totally cool because I was also pummeled by sweat soaked ladies, and that's always a plus. When Billy Talent ended, the crowd didn't stop chanting. They started to take down a microphone when we made our "Encore!" louder, and the stagehand ran off stage as the lead singer ran back on stage and grabbed the microphone. They played five more songs, and ending the whole thing with a reprise of "Red Flag" where they dragged it on for a dozen minutes, letting us sing the chorus over and over again. Finally, it ended, and the guys left the stage to a roar of noise. People went to go buy stuff, and Folkerts bought a shirt. I told the second guitarist for Hifi Handgrenade his hair was awesome. He said mine was better. I also ran into Stephanie Doppke, who I saw changing a light before Billy got on stage. We talked for a bit and I told her to tell the band I said hey.
Out into the cool Detroit air, the city was alive tonight and people were everywhere. The air hit my sweat soaked clothes and woke me right the hell up. I slammed the remainder of my Monster in a single chugging. On the way home, we stopped at a 7-11 for some slurpee's and I tried the new Full Throttle slurpee, which tasted like mango, orange, and liquid awesome. Then Folkerts dropped me off at my house, where my feet weren't working right, my clothes were wet, my ears were ringing and my voice was gone. My parents were asleep, my sister was doing her end of the year Senior projects, and my brother was playing Supreme commander.
I wrote this all in that weird combination of tired-as-hell-but-wired-as-fuck, so I'm not sure if this is even in English. Eventually, the two refills of water in my 44oz cup will flush out the chemicals soon and I'll be off to bed, where my body will try to recover before I get sent back to the labor of being a landscaper's child.
Cast off the crutch that kills the pain
The Red Flag waving never meant the same
The kids of tomorrow don't need today
When they live in the sins of yesterday
Like a fire
Don't need water
Like a jury
Needs a liar
Like a riot
Don't need order
Like a madman
Needs a martyr