Unpaid Hunter S. Thompson

Besides the summer being shitty heat-wise, it’s been shitty music-wise. This is partially my own fault. I could have put more work in to investigating all the bands I’d never heard of playing at The Living Room. I could have worked up the motivation for another psycho public transportation trek from Providence to Boston. The last time I tried that, though, I ended up having to leave behind the awe-inspiring fury and flailing chaos of the Dillinger Escape Plan after 10 minutes. The last train to Providence was at midnight, and I just barely made it.

There’s a lot I’ll do to see a good show, but wandering around the streets of Boston all night alone in December isn’t one of them. One of my friends suggested I should have just “met some girls and gone back to their place”. I suppose it’s theoretically possible that could have happened. I have my charms, but I’m no Jude Law. If I was Jude Law, I could just say “Fuck the MBTA commuter rail! I can pick meself up a couple birds on any street corner in Boston! And they’d have a posh flat, too!”.

I suppose I could work on that “learning to drive” thing. That would clear up a lot of logistics issues, and I would have a million new ways to die.

Anyways, that’s the past. It’s time to bring in the new. The point of this post is, I AM going to make it to some good shows, they’ve just all been compressed together into the first week of August. It will be murder on my ears, but that’s the price we pay. All 3 shows will demand the full unfiltered no-earplugs experience.

First up is Day 2 of the Newport Folk Festival, on Sunday August 3rd. Yup, just the 2nd day. If I was officially “on assignment”, I’d be glad to sit through the whole nightmare, but as you can see by the title of this post, I’m working for myself. My “expense account” is filled at the register jockey rate of 9 dollars an hour. Oh, but I get to “publish” whatever I want without editorial approval! Ah, sweet journalistic freedom.

I’m going for one reason: Over The Rhine. They have an hour and 5 minutes to play, and if some fucking ukelele jockey steps on a single minute of their timeslot I am going to rampage. More on them after the show, and I’ll probably do a compare and contrast with the show I saw last October in Boston.

Next is Nine Inch Nails, on Friday August 8th at the DCU Center in Worcester. Their 2006 show in Mansfield was one of the best I’ve ever been to, reducing an entire arena to nothing but noise and adrenaline. They have released 3 albums since then (Year Zero, Ghosts I-IV, and The Slip), so I’m looking forward to a very different setlist and overall experience. Hurt me more, Trent, please.

August 13th brings Radiohead. I like their last 2 albums a lot, but I’m not crazy in love like I was with the OK Computer/ Kid A/ Amnesiac period. So, I’m not as pumped to see them as I would have been before Hail To The Thief came out, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the show will be any worse. I’m cautiously hoping to be blown away.

Hopefully, after all that, I’ll still be able to hear things other than that high pitched whine that never goes away. According to that scene in Children Of Men, that high pitched noise is the frequency that you’ll never be able to hear again. As long as it’s because I just experienced the ultimate manifestation of that frequency, accompanied by a totally rad light show, I’m ok with that.

Sweat

It’s been a shitty summer. This summer, in particular, has been a very different genus of shitty, being my first Providence, Rhode Island summer.

It was not until this June that I realized how hypersensitive my body is to the elements. If I were to step out of my air conditioned room (the only tolerable room in the house), within 5 minutes I would become afflicted. I had heard of this “Sun Sickness” befalling roofers in Florida and Texas, but it’s reach goes far and wide, all the way to my apartment kitchen.

It starts with a vaguely nagging itching sensation on my upper back, or forehead. This is the first sign. If there are no freezers nearby for me to crawl into and enter the fetal position, it is already too late. Next comes the sweat. No, not “sweet” like candy. Theres an “a” after the first “e”. Sweat. Stinky, salty, pore vomit: overall, pretty fucking disgusting.

I’m of Irish and French descent. I don’t know where that places me on the global spectrum of natural perfumes, but it’s pretty gross. It’s nothing like the peculiar “tang” a Greek friend of mine possessed. It doesn’t quite have the tart edge of my other buddy who might have once been Italian in a previous life. No, my scent begs for the clean clear waters of a misty Irish Spring to wash it away. And yet, there’s also a little something about it that says “Fuck you, I’m French. I’ll shower when it’s not such a long walk to the laundromat.”. It’s a scent of contrast and contradiction.

When it gets really bad, like when I have to go outside my room for more than 10 minutes, my pits form their own environment. It’s almost exactly like that underground cave tour I once took in Texas. Instead of stalagmite/tites, there are ragged pit hairs clumped together by white deodorant crust. How long has that stuff been stuck up in there, anyways?

Then there’s the claustrophobic, inescapable moisture, hanging stagnant in the air with such tactile thickness, it begs the question “Am I in hell? Is this the Hell of the Eternal Stink, or is it the same as everybody else’s hell? Can they all smell me?”. It drip drip drips down your pits, then rises back up again by some kind of magical self sustaining hydroponic ecosystem. I probably wouldn’t last too long on Dune.

So yeah, I hate summer more than ever now. I grew up with the sea breeze at my doorstep. Now it’s like I live in the fucking Burger King kitchen. I say bring on the mild New England winter.

This is the first time in my life I’ve ever looked forward to September. Before, it carried the dread associated with the beginning of a new school year. Now that I’m done with that shit, I’m gaining a whole new perspective on the changing seasons. An old person perspective. I’m actually longing for “dat crisp fawl aiyuh” (that crisp fall air).

Another day closer to death!

“Are you alright, dude?”

“Are you alright, dude?”

Was the question mocking, or out of serious concern? I stood among the tall weeds (where a sidewalk should be) waiting, always waiting (?) to cross the road. The questioner that vexed me was the operator of one of these vehicles. I’d be a lot more alright if his car wasn’t driving along the road during the precise moment that I should have been walking across it. If I could go back in time and get a quick word in with God during his Course Of Events development meeting, I would’ve suggested never creating Mr.Dude?, or at least not filling his head with superfluous questions of inscrutable tone. Instead, I would replace the questions with ping pong balls, ricocheting around in his skull. My day would have been far peachier, way more “alright”, if this guy had driven by and asked me “Ping pong, ping pong?” instead.

Short answer, yes. I’m alright. You could say I’m doing just fine, peachy, hangin’ low, gettin’ by. I’m okay.

Put whatever spin on that or hang any connotations you feel would make this more interesting, or more like you, or someone you despise.

This is turning into a standup routine, where I tell all about the funny stuff that happened today and let the
audience look at it through my crazy colorful kaleidoscope lense. Or maybe it’s not a kaleidoscope, but a piece of septic piping rimmed in shit. Or maybe it’s a ring shape formed by my index finger and thumb, and it looks just as mundane to you as it does to me.

Regardless, here it is. It’s mandatory. I’m sorry, you don’t have a choice. Pretend you’re trapped in the side
room at the party with me, in the loser room. So, um, hehe, great party, huh? Nah, nah I was being sarcastic
actually. Do you know John? Nah, me neither.

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