Fridays are awesome! I love Fridays!! Sneak out of work a bit early, beat the traffic on the way home, and get ready for Friday night!!! Friday night, have a few friends over for pre-gaming purposes. Crack open a six-pack of your favorite local craft brewer’s seasonal special – Summer IPA with a hint of marmalade and cranberry tea! Fire up the vintage vinyl player that you so lovingly refurbished after you picked it up for a song at the garage sale down the street. Slap on some wax – classics only; MBV, The Pixies, maybe even some TPOBPAH to keep it fresh – and crank up the volume through your Utah HS-1Cs that you got from some sucker on Craigslist for a growler of Oktoberfest and a two pounds of grass-fed pork belly. Wow, that guy did know know what a gem he was giving up! You chuckle to yourself while surveying the room and note that the girls are opening a second bottle of that biodynamic Benziger wine that you were saving for a special occasion…
Later, after riding your fixie into town, you can tell it’s going to be a good night when you bum a rollie off a redheaded girl outside the venue and it turns out you have a friend in common. She knows her through roller derby; you used to be the bassist in her band. Hey, whatever, it’s an in, and even though you haven’t seen her for a while, this shared connection, this one singular truth that unites two lost souls across an infinite cosmos has you believing that maybe things will work out ok, maybe your boss will stop riding your ass about those TPS reports, maybe the funding for that Walmart planned for down the road will fall through, and maybe, just maybe, when the band has finished and the lights come on you and her can go for a falafel at the late night Lebanese place, and maybe come back to your place for one last glass of the Benziger, and between the short, furtive coupling and the discovery that you both love Arrested Development – maybe you will discover that it is a wonderful life after all.
Saturdays are awesome. I love Saturdays. Watching cartoons with the girl from last night. Fooling around again in the shower, washing down breakfast with a few Bloody Marys. Walking the girl to a cab, promising to call and knowing that you will because some things are just meant to be. Power nap for a few hours, then it’s time to meet up with your friends again to watch the local soccer team pound on your rivals from down the interstate. Stop off at the local brewpub for a few more IPAs and a goat cheese and arugula pizza and then someone suggests heading back to the venue from last night to check out another band. You know it’s lame to go to the same place twice in a row, but you’ve heard good things about the band so you tag along, although you wonder if there was something off about the goat cheese. Maybe you haven’t been taking enough care of yourself recently. Too many late nights capped off with a couple of the homebrews and a few shots of Scotch that your mother bought you for your last birthday. Well, one of these days you’ll sign up for that Crossfit gym at the end of the street, or maybe run some marathons. You saw on Facebook that your last ex is running marathons now and she looks much hotter for it.
The band is already onstage when you arrive and although the venue is busy there are noticeable gaps toward the back. The goat cheese really isn’t sitting so well, or maybe it was the stadium tacos. Either way you spend some quality time with the Toto, but that’s ok because you hadn’t had a chance to check in on Facebook yet, and as you go to flush you notice the toilet is broken, and that you’ll be leaving a pebble-dashed mess for the next patron. You smirk as you realize this will make an excellent topic for your next blog post.
Exiting the bathroom you run straight into the girl from last night. You’re as surprised to see her as she is to see you, and it takes you a split second to realize that she’s blatantly here with another guy. That’s ok, it’s not like you expected to be exclusive or anything, but less than 12 hours later seems a bit soon. You mumble hellos and try to introduce yourself to the douche in the Ed Hardy t-shirt but it’s late and it’s loud and he seems more interested in checking out the lead singer of the band, who, as she bends over to whale away at the E-string as her fuzz-guitar solo climaxes, showing more cleavage than they would have let her get away with in the Catholic school of her youth. You wave goodbye to the girl, although you’re not sure if she notices, and stumble off to find your friends. But even though the venue has really started to clear out, you can’t find them anywhere. Another couple of beers doesn’t help and the band has drawn a rough crowd tonight, not the peace and love vibe of last night, but a cold heartburn of characters with a menacing edge. You see some kids in the corner hit a snort of something off a key and you’re considering telling the house security when all of a sudden the lights come on.
Blinking in the sudden brightness you are startled by how young the rest of the crowd looks, wonder if they’ve ever held down a steady job between them and struggle to find a bartender to pay off your tab, which seems to contain suspiciously more drinks than you remember ordering. There’s a crowd around the merch stand including Mr Hardy himself, pushing his way to the front to try to get an LP signed by the lead singer, and just as you wonder where the girl is you realize she’s hanging on his arm laughing and he leans over and they share a long french kiss as the bouncer knocks the half full can you’ve been holding out of your hand into the trash and pushes you out the exit into the street. You feel enraged as the can should’ve been recycled not trashed, but the bouncer is a large fellow indeed, so you silently seethe all the way home and slink into bed exhausted.
Sundays are awesome. I love Sundays. When you wake up there are a bunch on texts on your iPhone 5. Mostly apologies for missing you last night. Someone had an emergency of some sort, they couldn’t find you, the usual. You are not surprised to see there is no text from the girl. Your friends are going to a local sports bar to watch the NFL games ironically and make fun of the local meatheads and maybe you’ll join them, because a cheeseburger and a few pitchers of Miller Lite is just what the doctor ordered to wipe away the memory of last night. But after your team loses at home for the third time this year you realize that today was the day you were going to try to go for a run, check out that gluten-free diet and maybe cut back on the alcohol. Someone suggests going to the venue again for another show and in a brief spurt of enthusiasm you tag along. But as you pay your way in through the door and belly up to the bar you realize that you might just be the oldest one there and the young kids are all so tall nowadays and how did that happen, is it better nutrition than what we had or the chemicals that are supposed to be bad for you in all other ways, and the band has been playing the same song for half an hour now, although maybe it’s been closer to a week and the local brewers attempt at a Bavarian-style Märzen tastes more like the urine in the elephant house smells when you first walk in.
Suddenly you realize that the girl from Friday night is right beside you, mouth open, presumably about to apologize, or explain or worse as so before she can say a word you take your beer can out of your koosie and drop it into the recycling bin.
“Fuck this shit”, you say, and jog home.
Moist Graffiti Rating
Fuzzy echoey goodness: 75.5
Similarity to previous releases: 91.1
Strength of first third of album: 78.3
Tolerance of final 2/3 of album: 10.44
Not The Weeknd: +1.2
Sadness that I didn’t like it more -4.5