So here’s the third and final post concerning the concert on Sunday. Perhaps I’m stretching experiences, and I should concentrate on covering one per post. I wrote these all at once, and set them to publish on staggering days. Whatever, here it goes.
During the headline act, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, I noticed a phenomenon that I’ve seen a few times, but never really took note. I was on the floor, enjoying the show (I always end up behind the tallest guy in the crowd, but that’s another topic) when I noticed the distinct blueish glow of an LCD screen in the hand of nearly half the people in the crowd. People were recording the show from their extended hand above their head, and struggling to watch what was going on in that tiny screen. It was odd.
It seemed at that moment, that these people that paid to come to the show were missing the moment because they were so consumed with trying to capture it in their crappy little electronic devise. My question to you is this: is the value of capturing a moment worth the risk of missing it altogether? I say it is not, but will leave that for you to decide. Pay no attention to the oddity of the question nor the vague answers.
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I mean, I can understand a picture. And technology has allowed us to see the picture instantly on an LCD screen. I take no issue with this. But holding the screen above your head and staring at the LCD instead what you paid your hard earned money to experience doesn’t make much sense to me.
I did not take a picture of this phenomenon, but did grab one from my roommate that he captured at the inauguration of Barrack Obama.
I have a couple of things to write concerning the concert on Sunday night. Although (mostly) the music was pretty good, my favorite part of the show was during the worst act. Rogue Wave.
A fella was really stoked about the band. So stoked in fact, that he felt the need to climb up on stage, and stage dive with the hopes of turning his rocking dive into a gnarly crowd surf. He witnessed another guy successfully convert the stage dive into a crowd surf during the earlier act when The Whigs were playing. The Whigs have a much harder sound that is conducive to the crowd surf, not to mention a more dense population of excited fans. Rogue Wave was a bit more mellow, and the crowd was much more dispersed.
So you know where this is going…
The Rogue Wave stage diver got up on stage and jumped. From where I was seated, it looked like he jumped on a single guy. This single guy then met the stage diver with a barrage of punches, which quickly turned into a few people punching the stage diver. The crowd surf obviously never materialized. I was in the stadium seating laughing my ass off.
The different perspectives and reasoning for my humorous outlook:
The guy being so pumped that he decided this was a good idea.
Whether or not he had a friend that might have said, “Hell yeah, go for it!” or “That sounds like a terrible idea, probably your worst idea ever.”
The stage diver seeing that he was about to jump on a single fella. And still going for it.
The single fella thinking, “There’s no way he’s going to jump, oh god here he comes!”
The stage diver being met during his surly rough landing to a barrage of fists.
The whole thing was perfectly absurd. Rogue Wave even stopped their song short to comment on the awful idea of jumping into a crowd of angry fists.
I am coming out of the closet today as a heterosexual man. After the initial shock wore off, my parents are fully supportive as are most of my friends. Today is a big day, as it is for any heterosexual man when telling the world that he likes girls. I can’t help it, it’s just the way I was born. You don’t think it’s a choice, do you!?
Eddie will remember this place. He wanted his picture taken out front for reasons that can only be identified as hidden skeletons deep within his own closet. The photo never took place, so he is off the hook. I snapped this photo the last time I traveled up to Amoeba Music for my regular record hunting adventure. I don’t always have something amazing to share as a story, or clever antidote, so sometimes an interesting picture is a good substitute for a profound statement.
On any given day overlooking the 5 freeway, you will see something that defies all rules of gravity and physics. The vehicle will have a Mexican license plate, and will look like at any minute, it will topple over and cause a pile-up of epic proportions. But there is no topple, there is no pile-up. The vehicle will leisurely make it’s way down to Mexico without a care in the world, and without a problem of any kind.
If you have a cat, you know they love boxes like homeless people love spare change. One Saturday morning I came downstairs to find the kitties both asleep inside a box that clearly doesn’t have enough real estate for the both of them. Although I’m far more a dog daddy kind of guy, this was a pretty cool cat display. I call it kitty yin yang.
I wrote this post a while back, but never published it for a reason that I can’t figure out today. Happened upon it today by accident, really. Consider it part of the archives.
What’s the thin white line? No, I’m not going to write about riding my motorcycle on the dotted white line, splitting traffic down the freeway, experiencing the thrill and tunnel vision of this one-of-a-kind high. This one’s about cocaine.
Insert dramatic pause.
I’ve originally started this blog to document oddities, irony, absurdities, and insanity. I had written a post in the beginning of my blogger days about a fantastic experience with some crazy mushrooms. It was a fun post, and a great experience. It wasn’t my first psychedelic adventure, and definitely won’t be my last. Since that time, I have made the conscious decision to grab life by the horns and not let one experience pass by without at least a little taste. When presented with a little bag of coke, I figured why not.
I had never done coke before, and quite honestly, don’t really feel the need to do it ever again. As a high risk for addiction drug, I don’t really get it. The high is ok, I suppose, but really short lived in duration. Maybe the addiction comes from wanting to do line after line in a single night just to maintain the high. Of course, there is also a very good possibility that the quality of the coke was sub-standard at best. But whatever the case, I wasn’t impressed. When it comes down to it, the high is very much like taking a Stacker 3 diet pill that only lasts for like 30 minutes. So you take another line, and another, and another after that. Bump crazy. It gives you a ton of energy, shortens your attention span, and makes you feel open to anything.
Happy Chang’s Army likes it hot, and so does my favorite restaurant. In the consistent strangeness of taking pictures in men’s bathrooms, here’s the latest installment. Enjoy!
I’ve been in my fair share of restrooms in my life. I’ve used urinals, I’ve used troughs. I’ve stepped around mysterious puddles, and have even somehow avoided touching a single thing in a public restroom using the Kung Fu kick to flush and Jedi Knight abilities to work a faucet and open a door. If I entered a men’s restroom and found nothing but a bucket sitting on the middle of a small room, I probably wouldn’t think twice about it. Just take aim and fire. But (earmuffs girls) why the hell does every men’s room in America have to be the epitome of infestation?
Last night, I was out playing pool at a bar in San Diego. The floor was wet. There was an abundance of paper product forming an impenetrable surface in the toilet (an unwalled toilet, I should add) that seemed to be saying, “I dare you to flush me.” The walls were dirty where messages of hatred were carved. And the crown jewel was the metal wall-hung vending machine that dispenses various sex products. There was a glow-in-the-dark, ribbed cock-ring. Some kind of condom that screams, “If you want to be a VD dad, try me!” And of course, pornography.
I can understand the concept behind these machines; in a bar with a chick, about to go home and get some sweat mixing on, and you don’t have any protection. But what is with the cock-ring and porn? It just doesn’t add up.
And why the hell do I keep taking pictures in men’s bathrooms? That doesn’t add up either.
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