These Predicaments
Last Thursday, right after work, went to pick up tickets for Spoon. There was already a line out front, three hours before the doors opened, and it was clear that I would have to wait the entire time, rather than just get tickets, go home, grab dinner, and then come back. All of the indie kids were in full effect too, with a nice assortment of Garfunkles, 5:00 shadows, Puma sweat jackets, and extra small, faded t-shirts, not to mention the air of luxurious disillusionment as the kids took turns running to the corner market for chips and hummus and their Red Bulls.
Anyway, my friends finally showed up with a bottle of Champagne around 8:00, and that made the final hour standing in the cold tolerable. (They actually dropped off the bottle and went to the bar around the corner, which meant I sat there with a brown paper bag by myself for another half hour before I had some company.) Unfortunately, five minutes after getting in, as I was rocking out to Blonde Redhead on the sound system, I was booted for having a drag of my friend's cigarette. I mean literally this brotha came behind me, picked me up, and pulled me out. It all happened so fast, and about halfway to the door I finally said, okay, dude, I'll leave, just let go of my shoulder. The guy refused. I then spent the next twenty minutes pleading with the different security guards out front, how I don't even smoke, and that I go to concerts every couple of weeks and the venues are always filled with smoke, and generally what's being blazed is illegal, and nobody seems to mind then. This approach didn't work, and neither did John's little talk with "Deebo". Finally the guy who had removed me came outside and told me to go home, that I had no chance of getting back in. He seemed hell bent on getting this through my thick skull. Deebo reiterated this fact, and it all seemed lost, three hours of waiting, freezing my balls off, a $15 cover, dragging my friends in from the East Bay, all of it was for naught until I finally said, what if I slip you a twenty spot? And he said, well in that case, you can go back in. Then, as I walked through the door, I looked at the guard who had kicked me out and said, how do you like me now? To which he rolled his eyes and said, we'll see.
Long story short: Spoon sucked, the venue was pretentious, the security intoxicated with power, and the whole time I was trying to figure out a way to sucker punch the one guard and make it out alive, but as we were leaving at the end, thankfully they were no where to be found, because a.) I would have got my ass kicked b.) I would have spent the night at the Bryant Street jail, c.) I would have been visiting a dentist soon to get some implants, and that would have been lame.
Why do these things always happen to me? I have no idea. But I better figure it out soon.
Anyway, my friends finally showed up with a bottle of Champagne around 8:00, and that made the final hour standing in the cold tolerable. (They actually dropped off the bottle and went to the bar around the corner, which meant I sat there with a brown paper bag by myself for another half hour before I had some company.) Unfortunately, five minutes after getting in, as I was rocking out to Blonde Redhead on the sound system, I was booted for having a drag of my friend's cigarette. I mean literally this brotha came behind me, picked me up, and pulled me out. It all happened so fast, and about halfway to the door I finally said, okay, dude, I'll leave, just let go of my shoulder. The guy refused. I then spent the next twenty minutes pleading with the different security guards out front, how I don't even smoke, and that I go to concerts every couple of weeks and the venues are always filled with smoke, and generally what's being blazed is illegal, and nobody seems to mind then. This approach didn't work, and neither did John's little talk with "Deebo". Finally the guy who had removed me came outside and told me to go home, that I had no chance of getting back in. He seemed hell bent on getting this through my thick skull. Deebo reiterated this fact, and it all seemed lost, three hours of waiting, freezing my balls off, a $15 cover, dragging my friends in from the East Bay, all of it was for naught until I finally said, what if I slip you a twenty spot? And he said, well in that case, you can go back in. Then, as I walked through the door, I looked at the guard who had kicked me out and said, how do you like me now? To which he rolled his eyes and said, we'll see.
Long story short: Spoon sucked, the venue was pretentious, the security intoxicated with power, and the whole time I was trying to figure out a way to sucker punch the one guard and make it out alive, but as we were leaving at the end, thankfully they were no where to be found, because a.) I would have got my ass kicked b.) I would have spent the night at the Bryant Street jail, c.) I would have been visiting a dentist soon to get some implants, and that would have been lame.
Why do these things always happen to me? I have no idea. But I better figure it out soon.
posted by Rob Simons at 11:16 AM
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