The first thing I noticed was the great abundance of very good-looking females. The Rock (a local concert venue) was jammed pact with not only girls from out of this world, but guys who were much more handsome than myself or my friends I came along with- Kyle, Sean, Emily, and Ryan. It was like being on the U of A campus, an isolated area of this city containing the entire population of women that make my jaw drop.
We came to see a band called State Radio, one that I'd never heard of before that night. I learned that another band, Revolution, was the headliner... Strange name. Or, at least coupled with all these pretty people, the name didn't seem to fit.
I thought, well, that's cool. I like the idea of hot revolutionaries (almost sounds like an oxymoron), or atleast politically conscious college students.
As I stood on the outer edge of the mob, my body compressed as much as possible, I looked behind me to see a girl taking a shot and using Red Bull as a chaser. Hmm... As liberated as revolutionaries are with respect to drugs, why would they partake on such an occasion, when they should be listening intently for the knowledge that this band, Revolution, will bring?
Well, State Radio finished their set, and would you believe, the crowd started chanting "U of A! U of A!" So I yelled out, "PIMA!" and wanted to say, "It's a school night for you bitches."
Then Revolution came on stage. The bassist wore a jersey that said Rastafari. It was at this point when I noticed there were barely any black or brown people. I thought, "Now wait a minute. You can't have a revolution without color, much less with white kids getting drunk and yelling, "Bro chill."
But, alas, I put those nagging thoughts away to try to enjoy the pleasant reggae sounds. That only lasted a minute before my friends wanted to leave. They discussed how lame this audience was, how it was full of frat boys who refer to themselves as bros. My friends had a problem with their presence. I certainly enjoyed being in the presence of all those gorgeous females, but all in all, that was no place for a real revolution.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Another True War Story
I remeber when I yelled at my little brother, Curt, for the first time. Well, it was the first time he didn't yell back. He was in the sixth grade and I was in eighth. Sure, I had been yelling at him for as long as I could remember. About the dumbest things. Mostly, I yelled at him in front of Mom, trying to regain my status as favorite (and only) child. It took me awhile to figure that shit out. Mom was good at ignoring me when I did this, which made me even more frustrated. I thought she was probably so good at it because she practiced every minute we were together.
Yes, those were the days of long ago. I had, of course, matured when I was in eighth grade, still yelling at my little twerp brother and his jackass friend, Rat. But I wasn't shouting so that my parents would love me again. I had left those days of vying for attention.
That first time, my little brother didn't say a word after I had told him how much I hated him for going to the same middle school as me and how he didn't have any friends to show him around. I told him how mad I was that I got stuck dealing with him when all my friends wanted me to come hang out with them.
It sounds bad, I know, but he was used to hearing that shit and was better at returning the favor, sometimes with a fist. It had always been like that, and always within the vicinty of Mom hearing us.
No doubt, I got spanked, yelled at, sent to time out while Curt got to run outside. I'd watch him play on the little fort Dad made for him. It wasn't our fort; we didn't share anything. I thought about how I would rip him apart one day, and I dreamed that afterward, he'd be sent to his room forever, his fort would be destroyed, and in its place, Dad would build me a roller skate rink.
I saw my chance come on the first day of eigth grade, which was his first day of middle school. I expected the worst, a terrible scream of hatred to minimize my blow. That's all Curt was to me- an excruciatingly high-pitched scream- until that moment. He just looked at me... he didn't say anything...
And I turned away from him and ran to the bathroom. I sat in one of the stalls; the bathroom was clean and anxious for the mess that middle school girls make. I sat there for an hour and sobbed and felt sick and hated myself for saying what I said. I hated how I couldn't get up and hang out with my friends, all of them laughing about the things middle school girls laugh about, or even go to class. But, in the end, I still hated Curt, and hated him even more for that stare and that silence. He just looked at me, so extremely lost and hurt, and with all the bad words in the English language, he chose the worst one. He didn't say anything. I thought, "What a fucking good comeback, you asshole," as I cried quietly so that nobody would hear me. I hoped he found his classroom, and then I hoped I'd never see him again...
I remembered all of that when I read Rat's letter.
Yes, those were the days of long ago. I had, of course, matured when I was in eighth grade, still yelling at my little twerp brother and his jackass friend, Rat. But I wasn't shouting so that my parents would love me again. I had left those days of vying for attention.
That first time, my little brother didn't say a word after I had told him how much I hated him for going to the same middle school as me and how he didn't have any friends to show him around. I told him how mad I was that I got stuck dealing with him when all my friends wanted me to come hang out with them.
It sounds bad, I know, but he was used to hearing that shit and was better at returning the favor, sometimes with a fist. It had always been like that, and always within the vicinty of Mom hearing us.
No doubt, I got spanked, yelled at, sent to time out while Curt got to run outside. I'd watch him play on the little fort Dad made for him. It wasn't our fort; we didn't share anything. I thought about how I would rip him apart one day, and I dreamed that afterward, he'd be sent to his room forever, his fort would be destroyed, and in its place, Dad would build me a roller skate rink.
I saw my chance come on the first day of eigth grade, which was his first day of middle school. I expected the worst, a terrible scream of hatred to minimize my blow. That's all Curt was to me- an excruciatingly high-pitched scream- until that moment. He just looked at me... he didn't say anything...
And I turned away from him and ran to the bathroom. I sat in one of the stalls; the bathroom was clean and anxious for the mess that middle school girls make. I sat there for an hour and sobbed and felt sick and hated myself for saying what I said. I hated how I couldn't get up and hang out with my friends, all of them laughing about the things middle school girls laugh about, or even go to class. But, in the end, I still hated Curt, and hated him even more for that stare and that silence. He just looked at me, so extremely lost and hurt, and with all the bad words in the English language, he chose the worst one. He didn't say anything. I thought, "What a fucking good comeback, you asshole," as I cried quietly so that nobody would hear me. I hoped he found his classroom, and then I hoped I'd never see him again...
I remembered all of that when I read Rat's letter.
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