On Thursday the 22nd, Cole and I went to Club Motor to see SST: Chronic Pain, to cheer on the handsome Cruz Bustamante, start up chants comprised nigh-entirely of expletives, fling PBR cans, and high-five an amount which some may deem excessive. Fortunately for us, we arrived before the doors even opened, and thus started our evening down the street at Hooverville, drinking Odin’s Beard or Thor’s Warhammer or something along those lines. We then bonded over our compulsion to crunch pretty much anything on the ground that looks like it might crunch satisfyingly, like a small pile of leaves, a peanut, or a hollowed-out crab on the beach–whatever looks crunchable.
On our way to Club Motor, we found this wonderful spectacle:
It’s your call: Are these ironic rims or deadly serious minivan business?
Inside, we started on PBR cans in the hopes to store up some to huck; little did we know that instead of flinging cans this evening, we were to be throwing balls, so we drank a lot of really shitty beer for very little reason. I played some Terminator on their arcade machine. Cole and I hung out in some random cage that was sitting out and talked, and every few minutes, one of us would fresh realize that we were having a serious conversation in a cage.
By the time the show was starting, we were both on our way to Happy Drunk Land. When they threw out all of the audience participation balls, I grabbed as many as I could and stuffed them down my shirt for safekeeping. Yes.
On our way to the restroom between acts, we realized that you could look right into the men’s room, and felt this was a photo opportunity that couldn’t be missed:
Not that our antics went unnoticed. Guys came out and said we’d need a much bigger zoom lens to see anything. A couple came out and started hitting on us. We brushed off this attention by having a dance-off with the door staff.
Then we watched some dude whose name I don’t remember wrestle the Holy Ghost.
Ronald McFondle never disappoints:
I started up a chant of ‘Sweaty Asscrack’ about Mr. Fitness, an accomplishment of which I am inordinately proud.
And then the inimitable Cruz Bustamante won the coveted Glass Bitch, a triumph after five years of fighting his way to the top, which I then promptly molested, and then followed him to the bathroom and took a picture of him peeing. I am nothing if not a moment-spoiler.
It was somewhere around this time that the people sitting at the table with us told us that we were ‘hilarious’ and ‘should have a podcast’, an idea which tickles both of our fancies. Why should I continue to deny the world anecdotes read in my ‘tampax commercial’ voice? Who wouldn’t want to hear stories about attempted emu-riding and a foot stench so powerful it once caused one of her parents to vomit in a car?
We went to discuss the idea further and also to get some food in our bellies at some diner that looked like a Denny’s but was not a Denny’s. Sadly, The Simpsons & Family Guy-themed BBQ place was not open.
Happily, the Dennys-But-Not-Dennys had a sign posted saying that if you ate there within two days of your birthday, your meal would be free, and it was within two days of my birthday, so chalk up one more meal on my free-birthday-goods-and-services-awesome-business punchcard. They were also awesome for giving us pictures to color when I slurred that I wanted one.
…it’s almost mesmerizing in a way, isn’t it?