So
I was at a “hardcore” concert this weekend. It was
quite an adventure which started at my friend’s house, he was my
college roommate. The beginning of the story isn’t very
amusing, nor worth the time for me to type out; so I am going to jump
past all that build up crap writing and get closer to the heart of the
story. Here we go.
We parked in a garage in downtown Lancaster ; my old college roommate
was afraid of the gangs in the city and didn’t trust his brand
new truck to the meter parking and the curbside service. Upon the
exit from the vehicle I could not decided what color was gang neutral
in this part of town. Was it the grey “Zao” shirt I
had on, or should I change into the black “Malicious
Disorder” shirt I had in my bag? I made my decision and we
headed towards the exit sign.
Upon the street now and I’m getting looks. Maybe I should
have kept that “Zao” shirt on, or maybe I should have never
come in the first place. Lancaster can be a scary town when the
sun goes down, and it’s nearing that time right now. The
street lights kick on and the eerie buzz from them make me cautious,
constantly checking over my shoulder for the unknown street thugs which
don’t like the shirt I had once thought to be safe in this part
of town.
We head down the street, “Is this the right way?” I ask my old drinking buddy.
“I think so, but I haven’t been down this way for
years,” he states as we walk towards a place where the street
lights don’t seem to have noticed that it is dark and they should
be working.
“Well shit man, I thought you knew the way!”
“Calm the fuck down, it is around here somewhere,” and just
as he finishes that sentence we round the corner onto the side street
and see them right in front of us.
“Shit man, there must be a hundred or more of them!” I bellow out without thinking of the repercussions.
Most of them turn and look, giving us that territorial stare, telling
my higher educational compadre and me this isn’t our pissing
ground, that we aren’t welcome here. We stop. It’s a
staring contest and we aren’t losing . . . not today. One
thing we have on our side is this group seems to be bearing the street
colors I so intellectual forethought to put on. Thank God I
choice Black.
So here we are, standing in front of them. Not sure what are
options are, I look to my friend, “What do we do?”
“Shit let’s just go to the bar or something”
“Good deal, let’s get out of here”
As we walk past the line that is waiting to get into the venue, the
destination of our trip, everyone in line is starring.
Maybe it’s because my friend is bald, well not because of nature,
but because he is addicted to the BIC. Or maybe it is because
they know we want in that door. Either way we aren’t
standing in that line. No way . . . no how.
So we head to the bar, spend some money, watch some sports and return
to the scene. The line is still there. Back to the bar; a
couple more drinks, an ATM visit and we are back again at the
venue. No line. It is safe.
We head inside, first up stairs to the bar. While we are working
on our first drink and are trying to keep our dick making to a low
level where we won’t get kicked out, I heard the band come on
that I came to see. “Bottoms up.” and off to the main
floor.
Upon arrival at said floor, we can feel the eyes upon us. They
are watching our every move. They don’t know what to do.
Okay let me break from this story telling mode to fulfill the last part
of this story. We were in this club to watch a band, well I was,
my friend never heard of them before. So I was there to see this
band that by the demographics of the people must be a younger band.
Being that about 95 percent of everyone else there was under 20 years
old. That will learn me, no more all ages shows. So this
brings me to the point where we just walked into the main stage
part. There were like 15 year old boys and girls all over the
place, well I am sure they weren’t all 15, one or two must have
been 14 or 16. This to me isn’t right. I am 24 in a
club surrounded by underage girls and boys. Now that isn’t
too bad right, I am just there to watch a band. But what if I
wasn’t? What if I was 40 years old and a child
molester? This would be my rapture, this would be my
heaven. But I’m not, so it was just extremely funny to
me. Man did we have a good time making fun of those kids.
“But Derrick, that is so rude! Why would you make fun of these poor kids?”
Well imaginary voice that seems to be the exact opposite of what I
stand for. Have you ever seen these kids “hardcore
dance”? If not, picture this. You are at a karate
studio. I am going to call it a studio because I don’t want
to use dojo and have no clue what else to call it. So you are at
the studio where they teach the art of Karate and you are watching
children practicing their karate moves. But they are not normal
kids . . . nope. They are all retarded FAS babies trying to
perform a round house kick while biting their elbows. That
isn’t even what it actually looks like though, that is just a
foundation to build upon. It actually looks more like someone who
just went into an epileptic seizure, trying to fight a fly buzzing
around their head and they are using their emo hair cut and their tard
skills they learned from Master Obiwon Chonody. These kids are
lame and they earn the Choad Award for looking like the biggest choad
that anyone can possible look like.
