So anyhoo, last Thursday after spending the morning and evening of the day in airports and the midsection of the day banging the home peecee trying not to completely lose the plot at work, I finally jetted into home port around 8 pm. After procuring the rentacar (I am always in line behind someone who has no idea of what car they want to rent, or worse yet has never rented a car before and needs every line in the contract explained, and I keep forgetting to do the express check-in online thinger in advance so I can line-jump) and driving out to Mom's, I found she had invited her deaf friend who she can't stand over so the both of them could watch the deebate together. Besides the fact that I couldn't care less about this election and just want it to go away like a bad toothache, I haven't been interested in a Veep debate since Dan "Potatoe Head" Quayle got shot down with "You're no Jack Kennedy" WOOO ICE BURN. Mom asked me sweetly, "You don't mind if we watch it, do you?" "Nope, as long as you don't expect me to join you," I said, and stomped upstairs to check thee Intarwebz as Mom proceeded to crank the TV volume up to Ozzfest amp stack levels and then started hollering over it her annoyance that the commentator wasn't shutting up and getting off the screen fast enough.
The candidates finally came on, full blast. Despite the fact that I was all the way upstairs, the TV is right at the staircase landing so it was like they were perched on my shoulders. In the words of the immortal Charlie Brown, "AUUUUUUUGHHHHHH." After the second "Darn right!" I thought I was trapped in a deleted scene from Fargo, or perhaps in the Milwaukee airport, which does have chocolate-flavored cheese pops and a cool bookstore but ughhhh the accent is like nails on a blackboard to me. At that point I decided that an hour of yammering Veep wannabes turned up to Eleven (interspersed with Mom yelling at her viewing companion for making stupid remarks or breathing or existing or whatever) would probably drive me to strangle myself with the venetian blind cord and that I should definitely go Out for the evening. I was thinking of going anyway cuz this band that I've randumbly had on my MySpzz for yrs called the Radioactive Chicken Heads, who play music wearing large oversized heads of chickens and tomatoes and scowling carrots etc., was playing downtown as part of their first national tour. I figured if I was going to have to look at big oversized talking heads I'd rather they be chickens than Veeps and be bashing on guitars. Only problems were (a) they were playing a joint called Peabody's that is about the shittiest most rippy-offy lacking-in-cred uncomfortable band venue in town and also has lousy parking options, and (b) they were on a bill with three other bands and the show had started at 7 pm about when my plane was landing, and thus there was a good chance the Chickenheads would have clucked off the stage before I got there. However, the prospect of endless "You betchas!" wafting up the stairs for an hour drove me to take a chance. Plus, a band called Green Jelly was billed with the Chickenheads and I had just seen the illustrious lilsnapper adding Green Jelly to his Myspazz fiends and he's a doctor now or almost so I figured maybe they were a cool band too.
So downtown I drove to the unfamiliar Planet Cleveland State University, where I have never taken a class nor spent any significant time unless you count the half-hour I ducked in one of their buildings to escape the cold in my super tight jeans and thin cheap little black leather jacket until it was time to go over to the Agora to interview the lead singer of a Brit ska-dance band who then took me back to his hotel up the street and tried unsuccessfully to make me all afternoon and then ditched me at the show and I ended up going home with my favorite WRUW disc jockey (for the record, not Larry Collins). The old Agora was flattened into a parking lot years ago and now in its place we have awful Peabody's, located in back of a horrid pizza joint and frequented by college sto0dents and dipshit downtown drunks. Sure enough I could not find a parking place even though it was 10 pm on a weeknight and downtown Cle is deader'n Paul Newman at that hour. I dunno where all the parked people were at, maybe at the CSU library or summat, certainly not inside Peabody's which was like 2/3 empty. After driving around one-way blocks for fifteen minutes, I finally left the car in a one-hour parking spot near the rapid stop and prayed that the po-po were on extended smoke and donette break. While I was getting raped out of fifteen bux by the Peebody's doorman I asked which bands were left to play and was informed that I had missed the Chickenheads (rats!) but could still see Green Jelly and some band called Rosemary's Billygoat. I figured I might as well hang around after hassling to get parked and all.
It soon became evident that all the bands on that night's bill were of the weird-costume-big-false-headwearing variety and that furthermore, they might even all be the same band in different costumes. I could see the Chickenheads' trademark carrothead laying backstage and it made a guest appearance several times during the rest of the evening. Rosemary's Billygoat turned out to be a theatrical satanic comedy band involving fog machines, guitarists in big demon goat heads, a rolling baby buggy featuring a goat head with a flaming horn, a nine-foot singing Satan on stilts and somebody running through the crowd of drunks with a large flaming pentacle. At that point I started to look around nervously for the exits while thinking vaguely about the Great White show fire in Providence and about how less than 24 hours ago I was in Boston hearing really good music and now here I was in Cleebland's crappiest club watching a band dressed as cartoon Satans set stuff on fire, but it still beat watching the veep d-b8.
After Rosemary's Billygoat wandered off to chew some beer cans, there was a loooooong wait for the headliners, Green Jelly. My back was bothering me and I was worried abt my parking sitch, so I was thinking abt leaving, but for 15 bux I also kinda wanted to get my money's worth, nor did I want to get stuck listening to all the post-debate commentary on the teevee or even the I-netz. When I saw some youngguy in the ubiquitous Baggy Shorts with a beer and cell fone vacate a stool at one of the cheesy round tables, I went for it and plotzed, only to have Baggy Shorts come back later with three of his pals, which included one old drunk bald guy in a bowling shirt, one old drunk guy in a beard and a buddy hat, and Shitty Ray Manzarek. Apparently, putting your can of PBR on a table kinda means you own it for the night at this dive, so they proceeded to hover around for the next 45 minutes occasionally attempting to make conversation with me.
"So have you seen this band before?" inquired Drunk Buddy Hat, weaving about. I explained I was there to see the Chickenheads and missed them and was hanging around waiting for Green Jelly. "I've been a Green Jelly fan since I was oh what 13? I'm 28 now and I'm still a fan!" (That's nice, you look more like 38 to me, keep pounding those beers and maybe you can get senior citizens bennies early.) "I even got the Green Jelly logo tattooed on mah leg!" he exclaimed, trying to raise his calf to show me without falling over. The Green Jelly logo is some sort of cartoony punk mister-ugh face so I wish I could have seen the tatt as it was most likely hideous, but it was too dark in there.
Drunk Bowling Shirt came back from the men's room and proclaimed, "Hey there's some dude in the men's room trying to convince some girl not to break up with him. He's cryin' an' everything saying JULIE I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT YOU and she's just yelling at him. It's hilarious!" I truly hoped that said youngguy was having this impassioned chat with "Julie" by cell fone rather than physically inviting her into the uberromantic wilderness of Peabody's urinals to discuss the status of their relationship.
After Drunk Bowling Shirt's pals wandered off somewhere, prolly to smoke (Shitty Ray Manzarek having left a tall can of cheap beer for me to watch for him), Drunk Bowling Shirt said, "Man Green Jelly is taking a long time to come on."
"Yup," I said, looking at my watch.
"So what are you doing at this show?" he inquired.
"I'm visiting town and I wanted to go out and see a show," I said. "Specifically, I want to see Green Jelly and I hope I don't get a g-damned parking ticket waiting for them to come on."
"You're a weird chick," Drunk Bowling Shirt said, shaking his head. POT CALLING KETTLE...COME IN KETTLE WOOP WOOP WOOP. I gave him a dirty look and he started trying to apologize or back off his statement. WHTEVR LOOZR
After some more palaver, Green Jelly finally came on and turned out to be some kind of highly theatrical punk band who make themselves up like the Misfits and feature a Giant Inflatable Leprechaun, Giant Dancing Sesame Street Characters, Giant Flintstones Beating Each Other With Clubs, and a nine-foot Jesus on stilts who incidentally was played by the same guy who did nine-foot Satan on stilts. Green Jelly also turned out to be the band who do that punkrap version of "Three Little Pigs" that I've heard on the radio once or twice. I'm sure this band would be hilarious if I were drunk enough and they even said that. Sadly, I was sober and not in the mood to get loaded, so they were just mildly funny, in an "OH HAI I'm sitting in a crumby bar in Cleveland watching people with giant Cookie Monster and Elmo heads pogo onstage. Where the hell are YOU?" sort of way.
During a song about nine-foot Jesus drinking beer (no it was not "Drinking Beer for Jesus" although that probably would have been a better song), Drunk Buddy Hat and Drunk Bowling Shirt got carried away with reliving their misspent yoof, and blindside-moshed directly into me even though there were like 30 people max standing around the stage front leaving plenty of mosh room - in fact you probably could have shot ducks in the joint or run through it with a flaming pentagram with space to spare (oh wait someone did do that). I just barely managed to keep from falling down. When Drunk Bowling Shirt decided to barrel into me again a few minutes later, I was ready for it, gave him a small shove to bounce him off, and he was so drunk that my push put him right on the floor where he stayed for five minutes looking bewildered while I went and stood under the "No Moshing" sign, which was large and red and not being enforced.
The Green Jelly show seemed to go on for ages and ancient eons, but it finally ended to the audience's joyous chants of "GREEN JELLY SUCKS! GREEN JELLY SUCKS!" at which time I split and discovered that my car had mercifully not been ticketed or booted, so I drove mice elf back to Westside sivilization with just one small detour thanks to the entrance to 90 being orange-barreled up. I don't think that gig made a Green Jelly fan out of me but I still think that rappin' wolves and pigs make more sense than this freaking election process.