This past Friday, I hopped the L train and headed into Brooklyn to check out a free show at the Vans warehouse. Normally I find free shows a little suspect-because they usually suck-but I wanted to give this one a shot. The lineup was just too good to pass up -- Pissed Jeans, Screaming Females, Fucked Up and the Cro-Mags.
The problem with naming your band "Fucked Up" is that they don't like to put it on flyers, I guess.
I met up with my friend The Saint (the reason for this nickname will quickly be made apparent) and we hustled our way to Franklin St. By the time we got there, the line was already stretching about a block and a half. I immediately did what I always do when I see a line that has more than one other person in front of me in it -- I debated whether or not I should stay. The question was broached and briefly discussed before we decided we would hang around for about 30 minutes and see if the line started moving.
It didn't. We agreed to wait another 30 minutes. Our conversation basically went something like this:
"I have to pee."
"What the fuck? Why is this line not moving? Should we just split and get drunk?"
"I have to pee."
"Ooooh, someone's getting arrested."
"Why is this line not fucking moving? How hard is it to check some goddamned ID's and let us in?"
"I have to pee. Real fucking bad."
Somewhere in between The Saint and me debating whether or not to ditch, regaling each other with ridiculous stories and people watching, I felt a familiar cramping emanating from my lady parts. It was the warning signal that Aunt Flo was intending on making an unplanned visit and crashing my party.
That would certainly make the line move faster...
By this time, we'd already been in line for an hour and I had two choices: 1) abandon ship and let my vagina and it's obnoxious monthly ritual control my life or 2) clench my thighs really tightly together and hope to god I didn't have to make any sudden moves that might kickstart the flow.
I chose option 2. It was a punk rock show, after all. Sure, I was cramping and playing Russian roulette with my underwear but goddamit I wanted to see those bands. It was only some cramping, after all. And if that was the worst of what could happen, I was totally okay with it. In fact, this whole thing was becoming grimly amusing because random annoying shit like this happens to me all the time. I sent off a quick email to the ladies letting them know what was going on. About 10 minutes later, Snarkier Than You responds back with "please stay out of the tornadoes and other shitty weather we have coming our way."
It looked exactly like this, but with less water and more warehouses, hipsters and douchebags...
As if on cue, the sun was obscured by some alarmingly dark and green-ish looking clouds and the wind began to pick up. The debate to ditch was once again brought up. I think The Saint was all gung-ho to throw in the towel and find a nice comfy dive bar we could go to and drink to our heart's content. Unfortunately for her I had crossed The Point -- I had invested far too much time standing in line to back out. Nothing was going to stop me from getting into the venue.
Well, that was my thought process right before the sky opened up and pissed all over us with the fury of a thousand drunk gods who really, really had to go. I mean, it fucking poured. Buckets. The Saint and I were huddled under my little umbrella like refugees but it was totally fruitless. The rain came at us from all angles. We were soaked. It was then we decided to say fuck it.
Oh hai, drowned rat.
Except, we couldn't really move without getting even wetter. We were in a warehouse area of Brooklyn that was completely open. There was no way we could both fit under the umbrella and walk at the same time. We had waited too long and the weather made our decision for us. And that decision was to stand like a bunch of fucking jackasses on a Brooklyn sidewalk for forty five more minutes in a freaking monsoon.
Thar she blows, a hump leg of blah blah blah. You know what I'm trying to say.
Finally, the line actually began to move and we shuffled toward the door, water squelching out of sneakers and just as I walked into the warehouse, I looked behind me and saw a glimpse of the sun through the slowing rainstorm.
Like I said, someone likes to fuck me.
Once we got in and our eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized it wasn't actually a warehouse at all. It was a mini skate park, which meant the ground was cement and (since it was covered in about an inch of water) slick as hell. I carefully began pushing my way through the crowds looking for a bathroom so I could take care of problem Numero Uno - the imminent arrival of the crimson tide.
I couldn't find one. I scoured every corner of the building, tugged on random doors and... nothing. No shitter to be found in the whole place. Finally, I went up to one of the security guards and asked. He pointed toward the back of the building, which was basically just a bunch of huge cargo doors that opened up to an outside area... that was completely invisible under the sheet of rain that was coming down again.
"There are port-o-johns outside," he said, a little too gleefully for my liking. Fuck. I slowly picked my way through the crowd and stood at the edge of those cargo doors, looking up at the rain and knowing there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I was going to have to go out there.
I started to sprint to the outhouses. What I hadn't realized, since I was looking up and not down, was the outside portion of the skate park was actually a shallow bowl, which presumably is awesome when it's dry and you're on a skateboard. But it wasn't dry and I wasn't on a skateboard and instead I kind of flailed and sloshed through it, sort of like Bella did in the fountain as she ran toward Edward, except I wasn't running toward a hot, sparkly vampire. I was sprinting toward a row of fucking port-o-potties. Not as awesome.
I'm going to go ahead and skip what happened next but let's put it this way -- if you've never had to use a tampon, in a port-o-john, in the pouring rain with your sopping wet handbag draped around your neck and water seeping over your feet -- then you are one lucky bitch.
In the end, the rain finally subsided, the bands began to play and The Saint and I discovered the beer was free. Shitty, but free. We spent the next few hours sucking down sub-par beer and rocked out to the bands, all the while looking like the drowned rats we felt like.
Because the fates can't let me actually enjoy an evening after making me suffer, by the time Fucked Up came on, the sound was starting to sound... not good. At all. The Saint and I choked down a couple more free beers (did I mention they were free? And really shitty?) and decided we would suck up our vanity and head to someplace that actually had something other than shitty free beer and feedback coming from the speakers for a nightcap before I headed back to dirty Jerz.
We were stopped as we tried to leave and the bouncer explained to us that we had relinquish our wristbands in order to leave. No biggie. I mean, they were those shitty Tyvek wristbands that all clubs and bars love to hand out.
It's me and The Saint, showing off our fancy wristbands. Also, if you believe that, I have a bridge I want to sell you.
The Saint ripped hers off like she was The Hulk battling a piece of Wal-Mart toilet paper. I tugged on mine. Nothing. I scraped, I picked, I pulled... my fucking wristband would not come off. The Saint pulled out some keys and tried sawing at it while the bouncer held my arm steady and I'm pretty sure they both ignored me when I mentioned I would be pissed if she stabbed me.
The wristband remained securely around my wrist. The bouncer stared at it, perplexed. Then he looked at me and said, "may I?"
I said sure, even though clearly what I thought he was going to do was NOT what he was planning to do. Needless to say, I was completely flabbergasted when he bent over and began to chew on my wristband.
With his fucking teeth. Gnawing. I was standing in some warehouse with a punk band playing in the background while some grown man in a suit and one of those earpieces the Secret Service dudes wear was attempting to chew a piece of fucking Tyvek off my wrist.
It didn't work. I finally convinced him that I was not coming back and The Saint and I ran as far away as we possibly could. Well, we ran until we found the first suitable bar, which really wasn't that far. And then we agreed the whole night had been a total shitshow and discussed when we'd meet up again for another show.
If you look real close I think you can see teeth marks.
I can't wait to see what happens when I go back there this Thursday to see Man Man.