A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || February 12, 2003 || 10:24 am

“Hi, I’m Perky McJournalist!”

Not so long ago, Maxim and I were at Five Points awaiting the Q-Burns/LoFi Allstars show. Q-Burns (a really, really nice guy and pretty fine bender of sound) had yet to ascend the stage, so the house lights were up (or, as up as they were ever gonna be) and they had music –smatterings from damn near every genre– piping in.

As we always do, Maxim and I were two-fisting it, playing and dancing around one of the poles near the stage. We situate ourselves this way every time we await a show at that particular venue, because we want to be up next to the rails when everything starts. Aside from gushing fanliness, we like to observe different elements of the performance: lighting, effects, what-have-you. At that vantage point you can check out how each musician wrangles the sound out of their baby, the technical aspects of them making the music their own.

An added benefit is that if you get just a tad too blotto before the music commences, you can lean on the rail as you holler your praise and pledge your drunken support, for whatever it’s worth.

So there’s me and there’s Maxim and between us we are fondling eight beers, two apiece in bellies, two apiece in hands. We, typically, enjoy one another’s company. Yes, we’re one of those couples who happens to like one another ninety-eight percent of the time, one of those couples whose conversations are not limited by/to talk about kids and bills and work. We like one another, but try not to gross others out with this fact. Regardless, we still tend to enjoy ourselves within the scope of one another’s company.

At this particular show, we were approached by a well-dressed woman in her late twenties, and as her opener she used the line you see in quotes above. Maxim and I turned our collective attention to her as she plunged forward with, “I’m with [recognizabletitleofnationalteenmagazine] and we’re doing a story on underage drinking.” She should have said ex pose ay (that’s what it really was, after all), but of course we, being the drunken louts we appeared to be, would not be able to wrap our feeble, alchol-soaked intellects around that particular word. Besides, ‘expose’ is a big, SCARY word, and why would she want to flick off the headlights and frighten the deer away?

Maxim and I traded looks, trying not to let our amusement shine forth.

Perky Mc(pseudo)Journalist stuck out her hand, shaking each of ours, and Maxim said, “Hi. I’m Eddie.” I followed suit, citing my name as D’Lois (I leaned over the notebook where she was scribbling in order to assist her:”That’s Dee apostrophe capital Ell oh eye ess, ma’am.”). This was, of course, in reference to my muse (delores?) and an attempt to give her a chah-min Southerin name. You know, the kind that ignorant backwoods underage drinkers have.

This gal was as white-bread, cornpone as they come, hair all coiffed and eyes all big and earnest, asking us probing questions about our drinking habits and our lifestyles and our parents. We showed no remorse, Maxim and I, as we goosed her Ivy League, At-One-Time-I-Was-A-Debutante-But-Now-I’m-SEEEERIOUS attempt at class profiling. Keep in mind that while Maxim is one of those people that will forever have the face of a fourteen-year-old (sans acne), the youngest I’ve ever gotten pegged is twenty-three, lighting notwithstanding. At the time he was twenty-six and I was pushing up on thirty fast and furious-like.

Eventually she went away and we went for more beer and everybody was happy. We enjoyed the show, except for the part where we learned that the (near-nobody) Lo Fidelity Allstars were self-absorbed, limey bastard gits. We went home, entertained, had lots of sex and tucked the evening away in the memory banks, forgotten for the most part as another show we’d taken in.

Some three months later I was standing in line at the grocery store with the three monkeys giving it the “Mom, this” and “Momma, that” and “Mommycouldweplease” routine. I glanced to my left and saw [recognizabletitleofnationalteenmagazine] there on the rack with, as you may well guess, block letters announcing the sweeping rampage of underage alcohol consumption in Our Beloved Uhmurickuh. I looked guiltily around before sliding the magazine into my hand, skimming the pages for evidence of my and Maxim’s Mayhemian Pursuittm. There it was, and I grew giddy with glee at the subversiveness of it all.

Then, as a gesture of celebration, I bought the kids a round of whatever candy I was saying no to previously.

4 worked it out »

  1. Tim 2.12.2003

    I’m all about some “Battle Flag”. Although I guarantee they don’t drag Pigeonhead to every show they have.

    Subversion is sooooo yummy. I’ve got about 20 of these: http://subvert.us/thankyou/

    Lemme know if you want one.

  2. Jett 2.12.2003

    OOOH! Gimme! YAY!

  3. Tim 2.12.2003

    Send me your snail mail address (I can’t remember if I already have it) and I’ll shoot you a couple.

  4. Tim 2.14.2003

    on the way.


RSS feed for comments on this post.

(you know you want to)