Aaron McGruder, “Fresh for ’01 ... You Suckas!”
Hmmm. Everybody kept asking what happened to my collarbone, and when I finally tell them this place is quieter than church after somebody farts. Unless I’m in that church when said fart happens, because then I’m all “Hey, that guy farted! Good god almighty, he’s got the devil in him! Somebody get an exorcist! The power of Christ compels you to eat a lot of chili, apparently!”
Anyhoo.
Work-related Haiku time!
- Gay club down the block
Hard to judge: punk girl, or gay?
Dworkin purchase. Damn.
Despite Kelly’s demands that I stop pretending that I’m not broken (and by the way, Super Kung fu power congratulations on the acceptance to school in San Francisco. I’ll give you a list of people to meet, and people to kill. Guess which one is longer?), and though I kept asserting that there is nothing to do in San Jose, I’m going to be very busy for the next couple of days.
Tomorrow, I’ll be going to see D.I. with Retching Red. The next day, I’m seeing NoMeansNo. Tuesday, I’ll be seeing them again, only this time with The Freak Accident. And in about a half-hour, I’m heading out to watch The Fleshies.
Four punk rock shows in five days. It’s like I’m 16 again! Only this time, I have to work the next day after every show. Good god, I hope my supply of Vicoden holds out. Just to prove that I’ve matured a little, Etta James performs in two weeks, and I’m going to that as well.
Of course, I am still broken, my arm is still in a sling, and the lump below my collarbone has me worried that it decided to heal at a right angle. So I’ll be going to these shows only to hang out in a corner where I won’t be jostled or run into. In other words, I won’t be seeing you in the pit, motherscratchers.
Which is too bad, as I have this overwhelming desire to put my elbow into the base of somebody’s skull.
