I finished my exams today - so new thing #1 is finishing my fourth year at university. Man, I hope I'm not getting stalked, because I think you guys have enough information now to find out where I live, the names of my family members, my favourite pair of underwear...
After exams, I ended up - no, not at a bar - but at Best Buy, where I turned in my laptop for the second time in two weeks. The stupid thing keeps coming back more broken than before, and since this is only the second repair, you can tell I am irritated to the point of not making much sense. I have a friend who happens to be the Geek Squad supervisor, so obviously I ragged on what a crappy product his store has provided me with. He also happens to be my sparring partner in martial arts, so I guess it was fortunate he was working and thus not permitted to kick in my head. You know, store policy and all.
The real fun started that night. I decided to drive downtown, about half an hour's ride away, to watch another friend play open-mike at The Moonside. He rents an apartment upstairs from angry Portuguese people, but I've never gone to visit, but hey, I was finished with exams, and I felt like listening to some European domestic violence. By that, I don't know if I mean the angry couple or the music.
I'll admit I got lost on the way. I ended up driving the wrong direction for 20 minutes before hitting the end of the highway. Mark that up as another, unexpected new thing: driving to the literal dead-end of a highway. Pretty terrifying when you're going 100kph and then suddenly rumble strips start smacking your head into the ceiling.
[FREEBIRD!]
I made it, eventually. The Moonside is a quiet bar, tended by a nice asian lady. The bar was nearly empty when we arrived, my friend lugging his guitar and some equipment, while I carried his amp like a serious roadie. While he set up, I ordered a pitcher of beer and sat down. That's when I noticed what I was drinking was not regular beer. It was cool beer.
[It tasted pretty normal though.]
The real highlights of the night started when an older African gentleman walked in. He had a heavy accent, and began drinking a storm. During the set, I would randomly turn around at some loud noise he would make, only describable as some sort of agitated yelping I assumed was singing. Eventually, to my chagrin and regret, he stumbled over and sat down across from me.
I couldn't understand him at first, because everything he said came packaged in an African brogue, and was accompanied by a literal spray of spit that erupted from his jowls like Pompeii. I pieced together parts of his conversation after my face was throughly drenched in what was probably AIDS or something. Sorry, that was inappropriate. Maybe it was malaria.
Anyways, he was talking about being an international crook - or cook. I honestly could not tell. In addition, he was describing some sort of religious rapture he had experienced. I could only assume, because he was shouting "Jesus!" repeatedly while swatting the air. I turned around at various points to find the female bartender glaring at the man like she was trying to pierce him with her laser vision.
It took ages for him to leave. He kept standing near my friend, who was performing, and swaying, then clumsily complimenting him on his singing or the music or his haircut or something. Eventually, he staggered out, upon which everyone gave a huge sigh of relief. But what came next was even worse.
This man walked in, dressed in leather and tight jeans. He looked like Richard Simmons with the sawn-off scalp of Mick Jagger surgically attached to his head. He was carrying a guitar - I think he said it was some big name brand like a Gibson. He immediately walked straight up to the stage and demanded to be put on next.
When he was told he had to wait, he got really pissed off. "I can play a thousand songs!" "Pink Floyd, and The Beatles!" "I'm a first-rate musician!"
The killer line was, "You have to leave. You have to leave when I play because I'm so good, no one deserves to hear me play."
I don't know if he was drunk or not, but I hope he was because then he'd at least have an excuse to say something like, "You have to make the hairs on my neck stand up," to which another performing guitarist said, "Man, I don't want to do that. That's weird."
He left too, after a lot of shouting insults and thinly veiled threats. It was a pretty wild night, which was weird for a quiet, empty bar. I guess it's the quality of the individual that counts over the quantity. I don't think I would've made it if it wasn't for the cool beer. I wonder what they put in this stuff anyways?
[Hemp beer?!]
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